Asylum

by Amy Cross

  "Yeah?" Eddie says, reaching down for the gun. "Let's help him get it done faster."

  "No!" I shout, kicking the gun away. "I want his brain."

  "What the fuck are you -" Eddie starts to say, before I smash the base of an old computer stack against his head. It knocks him out cold and he drops to the ground.

  "Easy," I say to the intruder as he stumbles toward me. He's no danger, no danger at all, but I still need to kill him. I just need to do it in a way that doesn't damage his body. Glancing around, I spot a knife on a nearby table and I grab it. "This won't hurt much," I say, even though I'm pretty sure the intruder won't be able to hear me. I quickly move behind him, reach around and slit his throat. He gurgles, clutching at the wide open wound as blood sprays against the wall. I guess I was wrong when I said it wouldn't hurt, but at least it should be over quickly.

  In fact, it takes a couple of minutes before he's dead. I'm finally able to step closer to his body, crouching down to get a better look. His skin has been destroyed, just a mass of yellow and purple putrescence, but hopefully his brain and spinal column will be mostly intact. I've waited so long to get a whole specimen like this to play with, one that Nurse Winter doesn't even know I have. I won't waste this chance. This is going to be the spur that helps me get my work completed.

  Behind me, there's the sound of Eddie groggily waking up.

  "It's done," I say. "He's dead." Suddenly something smashes into the back of my head, sending me flying across the floor. By the time I scramble to my feet, I realize it was Eddie's fist.

  "That's for knocking me out," Eddie says.

  "I guess that's fair," I reply.

  "So what the hell was wrong with him?" Eddie asks, looking down at the intruder's body.

  "A fairly common illness," I say. "Well, common half a century ago, rarer these days. I don't know how he got into the building, but I can assure you it wasn't anything supernatural. There must have been an open door or window somewhere. Just because we didn't find it, doesn't mean it wasn't there."

  "We searched down here," Eddie says.

  "Obviously you didn't do a good enough job," I reply.

  "Fuck you," he says.

  I shrug. "What do you think's more likely? That a ghost came to Lakehurst, or that you and your men missed a spot while you were conducting your search?" Taking a deep breath, I look at the intruder's face. He does look a little like Francis Morgan, but not much. That was obviously Nurse Winter's attempt to trick me, to make me believe in ghosts.

  Eddie examines his knuckles. "I'd better go and tell 'em upstairs that the panic's over."

  "No!" I say. "You can't do that! I need this body to myself."

  He laughs. "Yeah, right."

  "If you tell her about this," I point out, "she'll start to wonder why you didn't find him sooner. You'll look bad, Eddie, whereas if you keep quiet, no-one'll ever know about it. After a couple of days, they'll assume he's gone, and everyone'll start to forget about the crazy guy who was shouting at the window." I look at the body. "It's sad, really. He must have been in the manic phase when he arrived. God knows where he came from."

  "You really want this corpse to yourself?" Eddie asks, a clear note of disdain in his voice.

  "Yes," I say calmly. "Yes, I do. The brain, at least."

  "You're sick," he replies. "You know that, right?"

  I smile. "Probably," I say.

  "Just keep me out of it," he says. "I don't want nothing to do with it. You can do what you like, you fucking pervert."

  "It's science," I say. "Admit it, though. Just for a moment, you were starting to believe that maybe this was a ghost story, right?"

  He pauses. "So did you," he replies.

  "Maybe," I say.

  As Eddie heads to the elevator and leaves me alone, I go to another of the workbenches and fetch my tools. I need to take this body through to another part of the basement and start the dissection. I'm a technician, not a surgeon, but I've read up on this kind of thing and I know what I need to do. With the right incisions, I can remove the brain with the spinal cord still attached, and then I can dispose of the rest of the body and get to work properly. A human body is basically a kind of machine, and I've been working with machines all my life. I can do this. I can make the creature that I've been dreaming of making all these years. That's one of the advantages of being down here in the basement. No matter what I end up doing, I can always do it with a little privacy. No-one really knows what I get up to down here.

  Nurse Winter

  1999.

  Lakehurst Psychiatric Hospital is far, far from anywhere. Even the closest main road is little more than an ambling stretch of asphalt that rarely gets used. I suppose it's good to have the hospital out here, in the middle of the countryside and far from civilization. The surroundings are quite beautiful and must be of great benefit to the patients as they contemplate their recoveries. I feel sure that I'll enjoy exploring the local area, breathing in the clean, crisp air of this idyllic setting. It'll be such a huge change from life in the city.

  The taxi drops me off at the main gate. The driver mutters something about having trouble turning around if he goes all the way to the front door, but I suspect he's superstitious about Lakehurst. As I hand him his money, he barely even makes eye contact with me, and he's speeding away before I've walked more than a couple of paces along the road. Looking up at the tops of the tall pine trees that line the road, I reflect that this is the first time in my life that I've been in such a wild and natural place. I make a mental note to ensure that I enjoy every moment while I'm here.

  It's been a week since my father's death, since the night when I learned that I can kill someone if necessary. I fully expected to be accused of his murder, but I discovered the following morning that Lorraine had told the police that she saw a teenage boy running from the scene. The police are now treating my father's death as being the result of him interrupting an intruder. I have no idea why Lorraine decided to cover for me like that, to lie for me and hide my involvement. I decided not to go back and see her. I can only assume that perhaps she knew more about my father than she ever admitted; perhaps she, like me, felt he wasn't the kind of man who should be around children. I didn't go to the funeral, and I still don't know if my mother's body has been found. Either way, that period in my life is over. I'm a free woman in every respect, and I intend to get on with my life.

  I keep walking, and eventually the main building comes into view. Lakehurst is rather imposing, and much larger than I'd expected. The building looks old, but the beauty of the surroundings more than compensates for any concerns I might have. As I walk along the gravel driveway that leads to the main door, I find it hard to imagine that this will be my home for the foreseeable future. Still, it looks calm and relaxed, which is what I need after the events of recent months.

  "You here to visit?" asks a guard at the front door.

  "No," I say, gesturing to my suitcase. "I'm a new member of staff."

  "Heard you were coming," he says. "Did you walk?"

  "Just from the main road," I say. "The taxi driver couldn't come all the way."

  "No kidding," he replies.

  "It wasn't a problem," I say. "Really."

  "Welcome to the nuthouse," says the guard as I step through the door.

  Part 6:

  The Nun and the Janitor

  Prologue

  There's a massive boom in the distance, shaking the ground almost like an earthquake. I turn in time to see a huge fireball rise into the night sky a few hundred meters away. That's it. Job done. Lakehurst Psychiatric Hospital is gone. The boiler has exploded and the whole building has been torn apart, hopefully killing as many of its occupants as possible. I've done exactly what was asked of me. I squint, trying to make out some kind of shape in the flames, and for a moment I imagine I can see part of the front of the building starting to collapse. Inside, the patients will all be screaming as they die; the ones who didn't die instantly will be locked in their roo
ms for the night, unable to escape as they're overwhelmed by smoke and flames. Nurse Winter herself will be burning up, the skin melting from her bones as she desperately tries to escape. All in vain. It's over, all of it.

  "Is this what you wanted?" I ask.

  No reply. Where is he?

  Above me, the moon shines down on the forest. Everything is bathed in a dark blue light as I haul the bag of skulls toward the river. I have to shut everything else out of my mind, ignore the pain in my limbs and the fear in my heart, and just focus on my goal. I have to get the skulls to the river, all twenty-six of them. I have to set them free, so that they'll leave my mind. This is the last part of my salvation. It has taken so long, but I'm finally about the burden of a life's guilt lifted from my shoulders. I'll be a good, decent man again.

  I'm so old and so tired, though, and this journey is taking me far too long. Many minutes have passed since I began dragging the skulls from Lakehurst. I had to wait until it was dark, until my shift was over, so that I wouldn't be missed. Everyone will have assumed I went to bed. That's if they even thought about me at all. As Lakehurst's janitor, I'm used to shuffling around almost unnoticed. After all, in a fast-moving world, who has time to wonder about an old man who spends his days wiping up other people's spilled bodily fluids? But that, in the end, was their mistake. They ignored me. They should have paid more attention to what I was doing, and now they're all dead.

  "This is perfect, Morris" says the voice. I'd been worried that by leaving Lakehurst, I'd have left the voice behind, but he's followed me out here. He sounds relieved, and happy. "This is everything I asked of you, and more."

  The voice is right. All the pain and misery of Lakehurst is over. The miserable sinners who lived in that place have been consigned to the fires of Hell. Thanks to the voice's guidance, I have reached the point at which I'm able to save those who deserve to be saved, and condemn those who have been deemed unfit to receive God's infinite mercy. Perhaps it's surprising that God has chosen me to be his instrument here on Earth, but I believe he has been testing me all these years. Now I have shown him I'm ready. After the life I've lived, it's important that I find some kind of salvation at the end. Maybe God will forgive me for my other sins.

  "No-one has ever obeyed me so perfectly before," the voice continues. "There is a special place reserved for you in the next life."

  "Is this what you want?" I shout as I finally reach the edge of the river. Dropping the tied end of the bag, I get down on my knees and try to get my breath back. I was fit and healthy once, back when I was a boy, but years and years of hard work have worn away my bones and left me in agony. I simply can't live like this any longer. The best thing for everyone is if I release the skulls into the river, freeing the souls of all those women, before tumbling in after them so that my own soul can perhaps be saved.

  I stare down at the moonlit water. It's running fast, which is good: a strong current will take the skulls far, far away from here. But while the water is soothing, I'm finding it hard to avoid thinking about the past. For decades, I've carefully avoided thinking about what happened all those years ago, but it's as if my mind - in its final moments - insists on dredging up the truth. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, hoping to block everything out. Do I really have the strength to go through with this? After all, no-one deserves to die like this. Is my past really so bad? I could sneak away and live a quiet life, but that would be cowardly. I must follow my destiny. God has asked me to do this, and I cannot turn away from what God wants.

  "You will be remembered as a hero," the voice says. "What you are doing tonight is a great thing. There will be glory for you in the afterlife."

  It's tempting to stare at the distant flames, to be mesmerized by the sight of Lakehurst burning, but I force myself to turn back to the work at hand. In the moonlight, I can see the skulls waiting to be set free. They've waited so long, and now their moment is here. It's a great privilege, but also a responsibility, and finally I tip the bag up and the skulls roll out, tumbling into the water. When the last of them is gone, I lean forward and allow myself to fall after them. As soon as I hit the freezing cold water, I feel a rush of adrenalin. This is it. After all these years, after thinking about death for so long, it's finally here.

  My first instinct, as I sink beneath the surface and the currents start to sweep me along, is to start swimming. I flail around, but I've never learned how to swim, so I don't have a chance. Sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness, I open my eyes and see the skulls floating all around me, being drawn along by the same current. It takes me a moment to realize that they're all looking in my direction, as if they're thanking me for letting them go free like this. Their gratitude washes through me as I struggle for breath and, finally, I breathe in and fill my lungs with water.

  "You chose this," the voice says. "For this, all your past sins are forgiven. You have succeeded where all the others have failed. You are my chosen one."

  "How did she die?" I ask.

  "Painfully," the voice replies.

  I smile.

  Everything goes black. I remember, as a child, sitting in my classroom and wondering what it would be like to die. I remember scaring myself by imagining how it would feel to drown. Now that it's finally happening, more than half a century later, I find myself feeling strangely relieved. It's not as painful as I'd expected. It's just a gradual sensation of my body shutting down, my brain dulling. I read once that in the final moment, the brain fires all its synapses, filling the mind with the brightest light imaginable. For a moment, I assume that this won't happen to me, but then - finally - it does. A light shines in my mind, brighter than anything I've ever seen before, and it's into the light, not the dark, that I go, suspended in water.

  "Thank you, God," I think as I die.

  "I'm not God, Morris," says the voice as everything fades away. He starts laughing. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

  Chapter One

  Five months ago.

  It starts late one night.

  I've been on my feet since 6am, cleaning up after everyone, and I don't get to my room until almost 10pm. Undressing in front of the mirror, I find myself staring for a moment at my face: how did I get to be so old and ugly? Forty, fifty years ago I was just a young guy in Chicago, dreaming of being a big star. I thought I'd have it all: the beautiful wife, the adoring kids, the trophies, the fame, the money... And now look at me, a washed-up janitor at a mental asylum, working sixteen hour days just to survive. I fucked up somewhere and threw away my natural talent. I wasted my potential. But it wasn't all my fault. I had no-one to help me or guide me, no-one who believed in me. If I'd just had a lucky break here or there, I could've been the biggest boxing star in the world, instead of... this. As I stare into my old eyes, bloodshot and with sagging eyelids, I can't help but wonder how other people see me. Do they recognize the unfulfilled potential, or do they just see me as an old idiot who could never amount to anything in life?

  As Lakehurst's janitor, my job is to clean up all the shit and piss and blood that gets spilled here every day, and trust me: there's never a dull moment. Even when I don't have to deal with the latest emergency, there's always other work to get done, like fixing things and moving furniture and generally obeying every order from the staff. I'm a general dogsbody around here, paid a pittance to act like a slave. Today, for example, one of the nurses decided it would be nice if the patients' beds were all moved so that they were next to the windows in their rooms. Guess who had to go and do the heavy lifting? Me. I'm getting old, and I don't know how much longer I can keep this work up. As I get into bed, I feel my joints clicking. Damn it, I was young once.

  Sometimes I think I should have gone mad instead. I see the patients here and I envy their easy lives. I know that sounds pathetic, but look at it like this: while the patients spend their days sitting around, occasionally having therapy, I spend my days working my ass off. If I just stopped being a janitor and started being a patient, my life would be so much easier
. Maybe I should pretend to be crazy. Could I do that convincingly? Then I'd be able to sit around, talking about my feelings and getting various pills, and I'd be able to watch some other poor schmuck doing all the cleaning and fixing. Damn, that's a tempting idea, but I guess it's too late. I'll just have to work until I drop, and then... what? What happens when I get too old to work? I don't have any savings, and I don't have any pension coming my way. I'll just be out on the street. I guess when things get that bad, I'll have to take a bottle of whiskey and a razor blade up to the top of a high bridge, and have one final party all alone.

  Flat on my back in bed, I stare up at the ceiling. It's only seven hours until I have to get up again, and I feel like I could sleep forever. Alone in my dark room, which is barely bigger than a cupboard, I find myself thinking about the past. I never intended to become a janitor. I mean, did you ever meet a kid who said his ambition was to grow up and clean other people's crap all day? I wanted to be a boxer, but no matter how hard I trained, I was never good enough. Eventually I had to accept that I'd never be able to turn professional, but by that point I'd blown my chances of doing anything else. I became a janitor at a school in New Jersey, just to pay the bills. It was supposed to be temporary, but I drifted from one janitorial job to another until finally I ended up at Lakehurst. It's a life, I suppose, but it's not the life I wanted.

  This happens every night: I stay awake, thinking about all the moments when I could have made better choices. But tonight, as I'm starting to drift off to sleep, I suddenly become aware of a presence in the room. I sit up, looking around at the darkness, but there's nothing to see. I'm not a superstitious man, but Lakehurst is an old building and I'd defy anyone to spend a night here without feeling a little uncomfortable. I've experienced a few strange things since I came here, like the feeling of being watched when I'm alone, but I've never actually seen anything. I've got an open mind about things like that: maybe there are ghosts, maybe there aren't. If they exist, I don't mind, as long as they leave me alone.