by Michelle Cox
“Quickly!” Mrs. Goodman hissed from where she stood just in front of the stock room door, waving furiously at Henrietta. Without thinking, Henrietta rushed toward her and ran into the stock room after her. Perhaps they could hide in here, she thought wildly, thinking of the bedding on the top shelf. For a moment, though, they remained motionless, huddled together, listening. The light had been left on, probably in Nurse Collins’s haste to drag her out before, but Henrietta did not dare to even move her arm to turn it off.
“Mrs. Goodman?” they heard Nurse Collins call out loudly. “Damn it!” they heard her say then.
Henrietta guessed that she was just discovering Henrietta was no longer in her bed. “Where are you?” Nurse Collins called loudly, her footsteps coming closer, pausing every few feet to presumably look into each bedchamber.
Mrs. Goodman dropped her embrace of Henrietta and put a finger to her lips. Silently, she moved toward the corner where the step stool rested. Carefully she lifted it up and set it to the side, revealing, to Henrietta’s astonishment, a small hatch cut into the floor. How had she not seen that before?
Mrs. Goodman clasped the thick ring at the edge of it and pulled on the heavy door. Thankfully, the hatch did not make any noise as it opened, which suggested that perhaps it was opened frequently. “Here!” Mrs. Goodman whispered, beckoning her with her hand. “Down you go!”
Henrietta gasped. So this was “the tunnel” Mrs. Goodman had been referring to?
“Hurry!” she hissed.
Henrietta stepped closer and stood at the edge of the hole cut into the floor. As she bent over it to peer inside, a cold dampness hit her face. She could not see anything down there but utter blackness. “Where does it lead?” she asked, taking a step back.
“To the golden city, of course!” Mrs. Goodman said. “Why do you hesitate?” she urged.
Henrietta’s stomach churned. Anything could be down there. And who knew how far it went? She could kill herself! Was it a waste chute? Or a coal chute? she wondered, imagining how horrible—probably fatal—it would be if she landed on a pile of coal. Though a coal chute in a stock room didn’t really make sense. Maybe it was where Nurse Collins stuffed bodies? she wondered, her heart racing. She fought down an urge to retch.
“Hurry!” Mrs. Goodman said in a frenzied voice.
“I know you’re in there! Mrs. Goodman! Are you hiding that woman?” Nurse Collins called out from the other side of the door.
Henrietta hurriedly sat down on the edge of the hole and gingerly dangled her legs into the dark cavity. The air coming from it smelled musty and dank. “What’s down there?” Henrietta asked worriedly. “Have you gone down? Will I hurt myself?”
“No, it’s soft—” Mrs. Goodman began before Nurse Collins banged open the door.
“There you are! What are you doing?” she demanded, her eyes wide at the sight of Henrietta already half in the hole.
“Go!” Mrs. Goodman shouted, and with one last look, Henrietta jumped.
Chapter 23
Henrietta could not help but scream as she dropped through the darkness, her hands and feet kicking wildly, her heart in her throat. It seemed like she was falling a long, long way, and she tried to brace her body for the impact. The bottom came sooner than she expected, however, and she landed with a thud on a pile of something surprisingly soft, just as Mrs. Goodman had said she would.
She lay there for a few seconds, dazed, staring up at the hole through which she had come. She couldn’t make out Mrs. Goodman or Nurse Collins; all she could see was a small square of light, which was, by the look of it, the only thing illuminating the dark, dank room she now found herself in. Taking a few moments to determine that she wasn’t hurt, Henrietta began to grope around, trying to ascertain where she was and what she was lying on. She managed to stand up on the uneven mountain and peered into the darkness, her eyes trying to adjust.
It seemed she had jumped down some sort of laundry chute and was haphazardly balancing on a pile of sheets and towels and gowns. The stench was horrible—the smell of feces and vomit and blood hitting her all at once. Quickly, she half walked, half slid down the pile, trying to keep her footing. Once at the bottom, she became aware of some type of bilious liquid smeared down one of her arms, and as she tried to wipe it off with the edge of her gown, she uncontrollably vomited herself. She stood bent over until it was finished and then stood up unsteadily, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Her eyes were becoming adjusted to the light now, and she was able to make out giant baskets of laundry very near her. Along the far wall stood huge washing tubs, and drying lines crisscrossed the room. She tried to ascertain if she was at ground level or below, but it was impossible to tell without the presence of windows.
Reaching her hands out in front of her, she made her way gingerly around the room, desperately looking for a door or a way out. She shuffled around two long tables, her fingertips brushing against stacks of folded linen of varying heights, and then around a large vat. By the caustic odor that reached her nose, she guessed it to be lye. The washing tubs were the only things that lay before her now, and as she squinted in the darkness, she thought she saw a small door set between the last two tubs in the row. She hurried to it, but in her haste, she tripped over a bucket full of powdery material and banged her shin. Small tears came to her eyes at the resultant pain in her leg, but she righted herself after only a moment and hobbled on. Upon reaching the door, she pulled at its small black knob, which in and of itself told her it was not an outside door, but, still, she almost broke into tears of despair when she saw that it was just a storage closet with brooms and rags and more buckets. Oh, what was she to do?
She leaned against one of the massive washing tubs, forcing down her tears, a massive ache welling up in her throat instead. Despite the hysteria she was beginning to feel, she swallowed hard and tried to remain calm. Wiping her eyes of any stray tears, she listened for some sign of life around her. Surely, she did not have much time until she was discovered, she thought. Either Nurse Collins was probably on the way, or she had sent someone down here to find her before she could escape. Or maybe Nurse Collins knew there was no means of escape and was therefore allowing her to scurry around in a tortured frenzy before leisurely coming to collect her when she was good and ready.
Either way, Henrietta knew she couldn’t just stand there. She had to at least try to find an escape. She looked back across the room she had just picked her way across, and then thought she saw—oh, please!—what looked like a set of double doors just beyond the mound of laundry upon which she had landed.
As much as she wanted to run to them—a flicker of hope erupting in her heart—she made herself walk carefully across the floor, which was untidily littered with laundry and other odd objects. Even so, she nearly tripped again, this time ironically on what looked to be some sort of trap. She gave it only a momentary glance when her foot banged into it, but as she carefully sidestepped it, she thought she saw . . . yes! A rat, of all things! . . . lying dead within. She covered her mouth with her hand, fighting a scream, and hurried past, giving it as wide a berth as she dared lest she run into something else. At the last few yards, however, she couldn’t help but break into an actual run.
Upon reaching the doors, she stopped herself from just barging through, considering that she didn’t know what lay on the other side. What if someone was in there? Another nurse, or even some orderlies? Even if they had not yet been alerted by Nurse Collins or some other authority, surely it didn’t look good for a woman to be wandering in the bowels of an asylum dressed like a patient in a dirty gown with vomit on it? Would anyone believe that a nurse was trying to kill her? Or that she wasn’t a patient at all, but Mrs. Clive Howard? She severely doubted it. If she was detained, would she be allowed one phone call as people were in jail? Well, there was nothing for it, she reasoned, her pulse racing. She would have to risk it.
Gently she pushed on one of the doors, wincing at the low screech it
made as she did so, and poked her head into the room. It was completely dark, which precluded her running into any staff, she assumed, and exhaled a quick breath of relief. So far, so good. Silently, she stepped inside and again allowed her eyes to adjust.
Just as the laundry room was slightly illuminated by the small square of light from the chute, she realized that this room, too, must have light coming from somewhere, as she was able to make out certain objects the longer she stood—the most surprising being an old-fashioned truck that somehow materialized right in front of her! This was an odd place for a garage—right next to the laundry, Henrietta mused, but her heart simultaneously filled with hope that she might at least be at ground level.
The room held a faint scent of diesel and oil but seemed abandoned but for the truck. Perhaps it had once been a maintenance room, Henrietta guessed, as she walked the length of the truck. Or maybe it had been a sort of loading dock for the laundry, once upon a time. Thoughts of the room’s original purpose flew out of her mind, however, when she reached the back of the truck and saw that it sat in front of two large, dark green (or were they black?) garage doors! Of course, they will be locked, she tried to school herself, but still she rushed to them anyway.
They were the type, she observed, that opened outward instead of the ones that rolled to the side. Eagerly, she grasped the big iron handles and attempted to open them with a push. Though the handle clicked under her hand, the door was held fast and did not budge. Perhaps it was stuck? she thought, pushing again, this time harder. The doors swelled slightly at the pressure, enough for Henrietta to agonizingly feel cool night air on her skin and catch the smell of the earthy wet grass just beyond the doors—but they would not budge any further. Henrietta stopped her pushing and allowed the doors to thud back into place. She took a deep breath, then, and pushed again, straining, her muscles quivering, but to no avail. Each time she pushed, she could see a tantalizing crack of the outside world before the doors closed again, like a baby’s head crowning before being pulled back into the womb. Eventually through her efforts, Henrietta was able to make out that there was a chain and a padlock wrapped through the outside handles, permanently binding them shut. At the sight of this, she finally stopped, accepting that she was not going to get out this way, and sunk to the floor, tempted to give in to despair. She had been so close!
Hot tears filled her eyes, but after a few moments, her despair turned to anger. She was determined to get out of here! She roused herself and stood, trying to find some inner strength, and looked around again.
In the back corner, she could see an ancient set of stone steps left over from perhaps the original estate. She guessed that they led to either the main floor or maybe the second floor. Either way, she felt instinctively that she would indeed run into some staff members if she chose to ascend that way. Looking around again, her eyes then miraculously fell upon a small side door to the left of the main garage doors, a pedestrian entrance perhaps! It was behind the truck in the corner, which was why she probably hadn’t seen it at first. It was oddly placed in that it butted right up to the wall, with barely any left-hand frame at all, which suggested the wall had been added later or that the door had perhaps been a haphazard addition.
Henrietta ran toward it and tried the handle, which, of course, was also disappointingly locked. The door held a small window, however, which glowed slightly with moonlight, a little bit of which made its way through the thick grime. This must be the room’s mysterious source of illumination, Henrietta realized. It was so dirty, however, that it could barely be recognized as glass at all. She tried rubbing the window with a corner of her gown, but the dirt seemed permanently etched into the glass. Still, she could make out the lawn beyond, glistening wet with dew in the moonlight, and she was filled with renewed agony to escape. She was tempted to bang on the window for help, but she instantly knew it to be useless, as surely no one was out there anyway—no passersby whose attention she could attempt to grab. Only the surrounding woods were visible beyond the lawn. No, she would have to try something else . . . but what?
Apprehensively, she looked around for anything that could help her. There was a workbench along one wall, but upon approaching it, she saw that it held nothing but mouse droppings and a rusting tin of Prince Albert tobacco. There was a wooden shelf hanging above it, which she tentatively reached up and tapped her hand along and found that it, too, held nothing but a small oilcan and more mouse droppings. Disgusted, she quickly wiped her hands on her gown, and as she did so, her eyes fell upon the truck itself. Could it possibly help her? she wondered. She doubted it even ran anymore. It looked like an old Model A. Even if it did run, she concluded quickly, she didn’t have the keys, and the garage doors were chained shut. Maybe she could hide in it? she thought desperately, but quickly dismissed this idea as being too obvious. Surely it’s the first place they would look.
Nonetheless, Henrietta opened up one of the doors and peered in. It was hard to see anything, the moonlight not reaching all the way in here. It appeared to be empty, though. Hesitantly, she reached inside, her hand passing through a cobweb as she tried to feel for any keys. Predictably, the ignition was empty, and she quickly pulled her hand back and rubbed it against her gown, trying to rid herself of the sticky strands. She shut the door quietly and moved toward the truck bed. Upon first glance, it, too, appeared to be empty, except for . . . except for what looked like a box sitting up against the cab. She assumed it was empty, but decided, with the barest flicker of hope now, to look anyway.
Henrietta put her bare foot on the tire and, holding onto the sides of the truck, tried to hoist herself up. Her foot slipped, however, and she found herself back on the ground, her big toe scraping painfully against the tire in the process. With renewed effort, she put her foot on the tire again and strained her weak muscles to lift herself over the edge, but still she fell back. She tried a third and a fourth time until she finally flipped herself onto the truck bed and allowed herself a small moment of pride before eagerly crawling toward the box.
Henrietta pulled at it—it was heavy!—and found that it was a toolbox of sorts. She began to rummage through it, looking for what exactly, she knew not. There were no keys that she could see, but—
What was that? Henrietta froze, her hands still in the box. There was movement above her . . . Footsteps? And now she heard shouting . . . Was it the staff or a patient? she wondered, panic filling her heart, and she suddenly remembered what Joe had told them about dangerous patients being held on the basement level. Oh, God! she thought. But this wasn’t the basement, was it? It didn’t matter; she had to hurry!
Henrietta gave the contents of the box one more quick look through, and her hand closed around a hammer. She held it up and wondered if she could use it to defend herself, but then just as quickly wondered if perhaps she could use it to open the doors? Maybe hit the handle hard enough to smash it? But what about the chains on the other side? she fretted. Besides, smashing the handle would take a long time and it would be extraordinarily loud. What about the window? Yes! She could use it to try to smash the little window!
Quickly Henrietta sat on the edge of the truck, her legs hanging down, and jumped the few feet to the ground. She dropped the hammer in the process but quickly picked it up and ran to the little side door. Wouldn’t it be horribly loud as well, though? she wondered, as she stood hesitating in front of the window. Well, she didn’t have a choice. She would have to be quick and hit it hard enough to shatter it in one blow. Still she hesitated.
But when she again heard movement above her, Henrietta clutched the hammer and swung it with all her might. The sound of the shattering glass pierced the air, and shards fell everywhere. She paused, terrified, listening; she could hear nothing now. All had gone silent, which filled her with a new sort of dread. She poked her head through the jagged hole, hoping she would be able to reach down and unlock the door from the outside, but it was padlocked, too! The feel of the cool night air billowing about her and car
essing her hot and sweaty face made her almost delirious. If only she could crawl through this jagged hole! Well, she decided, she would try it . . .
Frantically Henrietta attempted to smash the remaining stubborn pieces of glass with the hammer and with the other hand, gingerly pick out the smaller pieces. She heard shouts again and jumped. In her fright, her fingers momentarily slipped in their delicate task, and a particularly ragged piece of glass sliced the skin between her thumb and forefinger. She winced at the resulting pain and put her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. She pulled it back, half afraid to look at the damage, and gasped to see the open gash, blood pouring from it. She put her hand to her mouth to try to stem the bleeding, and then lowered it, attempting to wrap it with the corner of her gown, though it was hard to find any part of that rag that was still clean. She held it there for a few moments before she realized she would have to deal with it later . . . She needed to keep going.
Carefully, Henrietta put her hands on two spots of the frame that were relatively clear of glass and tried weakly to hoist herself up. She barely got herself up, however, before dropping miserably back to the ground. She was going to need something to stand on, she realized wildly, and looked around desperately. At the sound of footsteps running now, she moved to the truck and looked in the back again, hoping that she had perhaps overlooked something or that something had since magically appeared. There was nothing, though, except the already discovered toolbox . . . The toolbox! she thought in a sudden rush. Perhaps she could use the toolbox! Her adrenaline racing, she hoisted herself into the truck bed on the first try, even with her injured hand—she could barely feel the pain at this point—and crawled toward the box.
Quickly, Henrietta tossed out the heavy tools until it was light enough for her to lift the whole box and tip it upside down to dump the remainder of the items, the sound of which was deafening (it couldn’t be helped!), and then threw it over the side of the truck. She heard the door above the stone steps open and saw the beams of several flashlights begin their search of the room. She jumped off the truck, carried the box toward the door, and quickly stepped up on it. She put her hands again on the frame, and with this extra bit of leverage, she was able to at least lift herself up toward the window, but before she could pitch herself forward and through, she lost her balance and fell back into the room.