Cold Cases and Haunted Places

by Trixie Silvertale

  Hand-carved pumpkin sculptures line the curved driveway. To be clear, these are not your typical two eyes, a triangle nose, and a toothy smile jack-o’-lantern. Oh no. These are individual works of art. Each multi-gourd construction is designed to represent a different fictional creature of horror. There’s a squash version of Dracula, a Kürbis monument to Frankenstein’s monster, and a pepo tribute to the Wolf Man. Bittersweet light gleams from within the structures and the glowing eyes appear to follow me as I idle past.

  However, the decaying asylum is not to be outshone. Candles flicker in the windows on all four stories, like sparks of mischief in otherwise black eyes. Cracked headstones are strewn across the front lawn and hands stretch from disturbed graves. A low-hanging fog oozes across the scene, obscuring the walkway.

  The angel of death crouches at the entrance and holds a gilt-edged scroll.

  The eerie mist separates and swirls closed behind my ankles as I approach.

  Now is a terrible time to admit that I’m attending the party alone. This isn’t the kind of place I’d normally peer into without someone watching my back. However, my sort-of-boyfriend, Sheriff Erick Harper, is busy tracking down a tainted batch of “molly” that unfortunately hit the streets just in time to play nasty tricks with the partygoers.

  “Name?” The digitally distorted voice of the Angel of Death echoes off the cold brick building and the already icy temperature drops a few more degrees.

  “Um. Mitzy Moon.” Crossing my fingers, I hold my breath. I hope this isn’t a preview of my future appointment at the pearly gates! Silently I reassure myself. You’re on the list.

  “You may enter.”

  Well, there’s a load off. “Thank you.”

  The angel’s enormous mechanical black wings beat with an unexpected flourish.

  My bladder passes the test, and I step forward.

  A soft voice whispers, “I love your costume.”

  Turning, I expect to see a young girl. Instead, the terrifying angel has flipped off her voice modulator and is smiling like a groupie at a One Direction concert. Oddly, I find this more disturbing than the wings. “Thanks,” I mumble, and hurry inside.

  In case you’re wondering, my costume is Edgar Allan Pooh. It’s a hybrid of my own creation. I detest the Halloween tradition of simply placing the word “sexy” in front of anything, and pairing it with a short skirt and thigh-high stockings. I opt for original costumes, and since I’m enjoying my first official All Hallows’ Eve as an heiress, I can afford to create the best one yet.

  Edgar Allan Poe + Winnie the Pooh. The master of the macabre meets the innocence of the Hundred Acre Wood. The base layer is a fluffy golden-yellow plush bear suit with a cutout for my face. The padding has an added practical application when you’re blessed with the klutz gene. Over that, I’ve layered Poe’s iconic black Victorian frockcoat, complete with ruffled white shirt and cravat dickey. I glued a mustache under my nose with spirit gum, and on my left shoulder perches the pièce de résistance—an animatronic raven that caws “Nevermore” when I touch its clawed foot.

  It’s the closest I will ever get to owning Bubo, the endearing mechanical owl belonging to Athena in Clash of the Titans. As a film-school dropout and admitted cinephile, this is the summit of Nerd Mountain.

  Unfortunately, there’s no time to bask in my creative genius. The asylum is packed with guests, all jostling for positions on the dance floor. There are sexy kittens, sexy cheerleaders, sexy maids, sexy . . . I’m sure you get the picture.

  Our magnanimous host, dressed as the iconic Jareth from Labyrinth, has a commanding view of the debauchery from his throne beside the DJ platform. To his credit, he’s mastered the fluid manipulation of the character’s mandatory glass sphere, and the horde of “sexies” are in his thrall.

  Clinging to the edges, I work my way along the spider-web-infested wall toward the buffet table. Not for the first time, food will serve as my date for the evening. Trust me, there’s plenty of room inside this bear suit for my curvy hips and a heaping helping of spooky treats.

  Before I can load a plate with frightful delights, an individual, costumed as a man on the left half and a woman on the right, sidles up and offers me a hit of molly for a “Jackson.”

  Patting my furry tummy, I reply, “Oh, I much prefer the dream of honey.” Despite enduring an eyeroll, I quickly dispatch the poison pusher.

  Between you and me, although the event’s signature cocktail: Corpse Reviver No. 2, sounds alluring, I didn’t come here to party. I came to investigate the legends. Ever since I mentioned my plan to attend the shindig, everyone in town has been shoving their tales down my throat.

  First, it was the local diner owner, Odell, interrupting my breakfast with his report. “It was when the doctors and nurses at the asylum started to lose their minds that folks took notice. First, Dr. Dallenford hanged himself in his office, then that pretty young Nurse Fenton jumped off the roof, but it was when the chaplain, Pastor Rudd, drowned himself in the third-floor baths—that was when the authorities stepped in and shut the place down.”

  But I soon learned that shutting the place down did not end the supposed curse.

  Nearly every person I chatted up had a story about the haunted asylum. Details are sketchy and names can never quite be recalled, but all agree that the hauntings are real.

  Now I’m here, and I’m waiting for one of my psychic gifts to lend a hand.

  An icy tingle begins at the magicked mood ring on my left hand and races across my skin. I glance down at the glass cabochon, hoping to see an image that will quell my fears, but the swirling black mists within the glass dome offer no assistance.

  This ring belonged to my grandmother, and the first time I slipped it on, I had a walloping vision, complete with all the feels. Grams, who’s not as dead as everyone thinks, reassured me it’s hereditary.

  Now that I’ve had some time to explore my gifts, it turns out that I’m a rare full psychic. I get visions, hear messages, feel other people’s emotions, and sometimes I know things that I can’t explain. My ghostly grandmother and my alchemist/attorney spent the last year helping me figure out what I can do, but I seem to be evolving. I mean, new stuff happens, and I have to hang on and survive the ride.

  Speaking of rides, this party is sooo “extra.” The strobing lights aren’t nearly as much fun when you’re sober. I slip through the black pipe and drape, marking the boundary of the party area, and head toward the stairs.

  My natural snoopiness can only hold itself at bay for so long, and I’m anxious to see what lies in the “off-limits” area.

  Cracked institutional linoleum covers the steps, and age warps the wooden banister.

  Voices drift down from the second-floor landing.

  I pause and listen with all my senses.

  “I said I’d crack a few laws, Harvey, I ain’t planning on breaking any.” The young woman’s voice has a light Southern accent, and she’s definitely not on board with her date’s ideas.

  “Look, doll, we ain’t gonna mess with no one who don’t deserve messin’ with. Don’t be a flat tire, eh?” The guy sounds like a caricature of every mobster in every Scorsese film I’ve ever seen.

  “Me? A flat tire! Hardly. If I give you an inch, ya run all over me.”

  I creep closer. My night won’t be complete without a peek at these two. Sadly, the traitorous ancient steps betray me.

  “Someone’s comin’, kitten. We better take a powder.”

  I rush up a few more steps, but the couple is gone. They must know the layout better than me. Their escape was silent.

  The second floor is barren compared to the manic décor on the ground level. My prowl uncovers two couples canoodling, a lone teen spraying graffiti on the tiles in a room he’s calling the “shock locker,” and a group of potentially underage attendees sneaking up to the third floor.

  Time to join the group.

  I follow the adventurous crew into a dust-filled room littered with porcelain debris
. A tall brunette with comically huge fake eyelashes circulates. “This is where the guy drowned. The door was locked from the inside when they found him, and he was completely alone. He was murdered by the ghost of one of the inmates.” She holds out her pumpkin tote and each member reaches in—

  My extra senses finally deliver. Pills. The round pumpkin is filled with pills, and all of these attendees are partaking. Cash for candy.

  Sexy Nurse pushes her pumpkin of drugs toward me and purrs, “Time for your medicine.”

  In my previous life, I might’ve reached into that bag of dangerous treats, grabbed a handful, and spent the rest of the night making regrettable decisions. However, I’m no longer a fifteen-year-old orphan desperate to fit in. I tap the claw of my raven and let him reply.

  “Nevermore. Caw. Caw.”

  Not one to miss an opportunity for the perfect exit line, I’m circling toward the door when the rippling muscles of a bare-chested “Thor” catch more than my eye. There’s a warm rumbly in my tumbly, and my eyes seek the face of this god among men.

  “Erick?” Shock and awe.

  The God of Thunder makes a show of laughing heartily and slings an arm around my plushy waist. He scoops me into a dark corner of the room and whispers, “Don’t blow my cover, Moon.”

  I put a tentative hand on his bare chest, but I’m unable to resist the resulting tingles and must push away. “Your cover? You know what, Erick Harper, I’m not sure I appreciate you standing me up and stealing all my moves. I’m the one who goes undercover to ferret out tidbits of information and bring them to you.”

  “If memory serves, those tidbits are only delivered when you’re good and ready.” He grabs a handful of my golden-yellow fur and pulls me near. “Look, take the compliment. It’s a good idea, and in about ten minutes I’ll have enough information to bust the rest of this drug ring wide open. Now either you go along with my cover story or get your furry behind back downstairs.”

  If he thinks for one minute that I’m listening to anything he’s saying, and not taking in the tall drink of water that is Pin Cherry’s six-foot-two-inch sexy sheriff, he’s dead wrong. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  Erick steals a surreptitious kiss. “Your mustache tickles. Never thought I’d say that to a girl.” He winks and adds, “Name’s Craig, by the way. I’m home from college and lookin’ to party.”

  The fit of giggles that grips me is uncontrollable. The idea of our straitlaced, law-abiding local sheriff “lookin’ to party” threatens to end me. Once I manage to calm myself and catch my breath, I admit I’m not up to the task. “There’s absolutely no way I can play along. I’ll head back downstairs, like a good girlfriend, and continue my ghost hunting.”

  Now it’s his turn to enjoy a chuckle. “You can’t be serious? You don’t actually believe all that nonsense, do you?”

  Oh, if he only knew. “Look, I was minding my own business and enjoying my breakfast at the diner this morning when Odell sauntered out from behind the grill to tell me all about the doctors and nurses here in the asylum that died mysteriously.”

  Erick shakes his head, and his long blond Thor wig swishes back and forth. “And?”

  “I thought maybe he was pulling my leg, but when I got back to the Bell, Book & Candle and asked Twiggy, she said that when she was in high school, a couple of popular boys from some sports team and their overly sexualized girlfriends dared each other to spend Halloween night here, in the abandoned building. The next day, one of the girls was dead, the other one was too terrified to speak, and neither of the boys ever returned to school. So, don’t judge. It’s Halloween, and if I want to go looking for ghosts, I don’t think ‘Craig’ is the man to stop me.”

  He raises his hands in surrender as he heads back into the fray.

  I definitely don’t like the way Sexy Nurse is checking him out. But a girl-fight would likely ruin my animatronic raven and possibly land me in a jail cell for the night. Been there. Done that. Don’t need to make the sequel.

  Rather than return to the flashing lights of the dance floor, I skip down the stairs as rapidly as my furry feet will allow, make a left turn into the darkened recesses of the asylum, and skulk down the dusty corridor.

  Wait. Is that jazz music?

  Behind me, the thumping techno beat echoes in the All Hallows’ Eve bash, but somewhere in the shadowy distance, I swear there’s a saxophone crying out the chorus of “Bye Bye Blackbird.” My mother was nuts for jazz. She had an old phonograph and a stack of vinyl. Many of my memories of her have faded since her sudden death, but I can still hear her music.

  I move down the hallway with equal parts trepidation and anticipation.

  An ethereal glow looms to my left. A broken plaque on the wall says, “TERIA.”

  Entering the dilapidated cafeteria, my eyes seem to play tricks on me.

  Broken tables and rotting chairs of the Great Lakes Haven Asylum cafeteria flicker out of existence, and, without warning, I’m in the middle of a 1920s speakeasy. There’s a beautiful woman on stage with blonde hair carefully marcelled and her beaded gold flapper dress swaying to the beat as she plays an alto sax.

  The bartender wipes a few glasses, sets his bar rag on the oak surface, and calls out, “Hey, Sid, can you play something else? That one always brings me down.”

  The woman he calls Sid removes the mouthpiece from her full, red lips and shrugs her bare shoulders. “I don’t know, Billy. I feel sad. Harvey always used to make me feel like the bee’s knees, but these days I’m an empty honeycomb.”

  Billy reaches under the bar, retrieves an unmarked bottle, and pours himself two fingers of what must certainly be whiskey. He throws it back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know how he gets when the place is crawling with rubes.”

  Sid runs a finger under her kohl-rimmed eyes and shakes her head. “Doesn’t he realize there’s more to life than fittin’ folks for wooden kimonos?”

  Billy resumes wiping down the bar and sighs heavily. “This ain’t no life, Sid.”

  The images have a familiar lack of substance. I clear my throat, but neither occupant of the gin joint pays any attention to me. Time to make contact.

  “Excuse me—”

  Bursts of automatic gunfire steal my breath, and I greatly resent the moody mood ring lying dormant on my left hand. A hint or a warning would’ve been nice.

  A spine-chilling scream reverberates through the asylum, followed by a sickly crash.

  Sid and Billy both look toward the sound.

  She cries out softly and puts a hand over her heart-shaped mouth.

  I run out of the spooky speakeasy, toward the gunfire, and arrive in time to find the very dead body of the sexy nurse lying at the bottom of the stairs.

  Too bad the Corpse Reviver No. 2 is only a cocktail and not a magic potion. Dark humor is my go-to coping mechanism.

  As I reach into the pocket of my frockcoat, attempting to retrieve my phone, Erick bounds down the stairs two at a time, and Little Bo Peep bursts through the pipe and drape to my left, with her gun already drawn.

  Classic Paulsen. That deputy would draw down on her own grandmother!

  Erick’s eyes shine with concern. “Mitzy, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I heard gunfire, I think. When I got here, she was—”

  Deputy Paulsen waddles over in her ridiculous wig and ruffly skirts. “You’re like some kinda corpse magnet, Moon. What did you have against this one?”

  I place a fist on my furry, rounded hips, but when I catch sight of the ringlet curls framing my least favorite deputy’s face, all the vinegar drains out of me and I snicker.

  “There’s nothing funny about murder. Should I put her in cuffs, Sheriff?”

  He rips off his flowing blonde wig and scrapes a hand through his hair. Without its usual layer of pomade, his angled bangs hang loose and inviting across his face. “Call for backup, Deputy. Seal the exits and send Johnson in to help me lock down this crime scene.” He puts on a late
x glove and bends to check the carotid pulse of the victim. His head shakes back and forth.

  I could’ve told him she was gone, but a hands-free confirmation of the lifelessness of the body on the floor would only serve to make Deputy Paulsen more suspicious.

  Erick stands. “What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see anything.” I’m certainly not planning on telling him about the speakeasy and its two ghostly patrons. “Like I said, I heard gunfire. Maybe it was firecrackers, but it sounded a lot like automatic gunfire, then the scream and the thud. By the time I got here, she was— Well, like you see her now.”

  Stepping back, I avert my gaze from the pool of dark liquid expanding near the back of the victim’s head.

  He taps a Bluetooth receiver in his ear. “Behind the pipe and drape on the north side of the asylum, Johnson. We need to secure the area. And get me some light.”

  I take a shaky step backward.

  He looks at me and his shoulders sag. “If I had made my arrests a few minutes sooner . . . I’m pretty sure I had all the players. I was waiting for her to make contact with whoever was filling up that pumpkin, and then—”

  “It’s not your fault, Erick. They were taking way more than what’s safe. She might’ve gotten dehydrated or died of heart failure and then fallen over the banister.”

  “Possibly.” He rubs his stubbled chin. “She landed on her back—like she was pushed—and I never saw her sample the goods. We’ll have to wait for toxicology.”

  “No bullet wounds?”

  Erick takes a second look. “None that I can see, but this lighting is terrible. When Johnson—”

  The draperies pull aside and Deputy Johnson enters with a huge battery-powered work light. When he kicks it on, the clarity of the crime scene proves too much for me.

  “I’ve gotta go.” I place a paw on my swirling stomach and gulp down some air. “That— That’s all I saw or heard, I mean. Talk to you later.”

  In my haste to get away from the over-illuminated corpse, I run the wrong way and end up outside the ruins of the old cafeteria.