Rag Doll Bones: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  “If only that had been the end of it. I should have let the bones go. What kind of legal recourse did I have? Phone the police and tell them this esteemed psychiatrist had swiped the bones I myself had stolen from the Amazon? I confronted him and he had the audacity to say, ‘What bones?’ as if he had no idea what I spoke of. I began to stalk him. I watched him for days, and that is when I saw the child.”

  Max sat forward.

  “He and another doctor were leading the boy through the woods behind the asylum. The boy looked terrified. He was crying for his mother. I called the police, and they treated me like a lunatic. Finally, I reached out to Abe Levett. He believed, me, by God, he did. But the article only incensed Lance. He struck back, printing an interview that I had gone to Brazil and lost my mind. I played right into his hands. I took my pistol and I confronted him at the asylum of all places. Fool-fool-fool.”

  He slapped his palm lightly against his head over and over. “It took the orderlies in that place about two minutes to disarm me and haul me inside.”

  “They didn’t call the police?”

  “Oh no, Dr. Lance said he was a dear friend of mine. He told everyone he would hold himself directly responsible for my care. I had no family to speak for me. My sister is across the country and couldn’t be bothered. Lance told everyone I was crying out for help. I was admitted that day, and the drugs were administered before I’d even been brought into the building.”

  “But your sister visited you. Why didn’t she sound the alarm?”

  “She believed him,” Percy said dismissively. “It wasn’t her fault. I love Jody, but we’ve never understood each other. She lives in the same town we grew up in. Owns a farm with her husband. Has five children. She used to send me letters about baking pies and sewing quilts for the church.

  “She’s like my mother and my father, good, devout, and serving of others. I’m a selfish man. I didn’t realize it until I took those bones. But then I did. And I have begun to pay for my pride and selfishness, but it’s not over yet. I’m taking them back. Maybe they will let me live, but it’s just as likely they will not.”

  “The ghost tribe?”

  Percy nodded.

  “I don’t understand the purpose of the child?” Max said.

  Percy rubbed his jaw. “How about a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs? I have no recollection of when I last ate, but my stomach is telling me it’s been days.”

  Max blanched. “Yeah, sorry.”

  He stood quickly and slipped into the kitchen, embarrassed he’d kept the man talking and hadn’t offered him so much as a glass of water. Maria Wolfenstein would have boxed his ears for such an offense.

  41

  The phone rang and rang. Ashley listened to it shrill through the quiet house.

  Her mother had left for work promising they’d make a plan for the bike that evening.

  On the carpet, Alvin slept in a tight little ball. His tiny black hands cradled his face.

  Ashley lifted the toast from her plate, nibbled the edge, and then returned it, not hungry. Her heart hurt less than the day before. A numbness had stolen over her. She could see the blue door that led into the garage. The garage where the crumpled remains of Starfire lay.

  Several minutes passed, and she heard a pounding on the door.

  “Ash? You in there?” Sid’s voice drifted through the door.

  She didn’t answer. She heard him slide the spare key into the lock.

  He peeked his head in, looked to the right, and then spotted her.

  His eyes widened. “I’ve called like a zillion times. What’s going on?” He walked into the living room and paused when he spotted Alvin. His eyes immediately swept the floor. “You brought him home? What about Simon and Theodore?”

  Ashley swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. It all stood there, the grief, the shock of the night before. It stood perched on the edge of a cliff. If she spoke, she would tip forward and disappear into that blackness.

  He kicked off his tennis shoes, a habit developed in his own home. Ashley’s mom could care less if the kids wore shoes on the carpet. When he sat next to Ashley, he seemed confused, even a little scared.

  “Ash, what’s wrong? Where are the other raccoons?”

  “Dead,” she muttered, unable to explain, unwilling to relive it, but forced to just the same.

  She saw again the mound of fur and blood.

  The vision brought the rage back. She wanted to hit, to hurt, and make them pay - Travis, his cruel friends, and the monster in the woods. All the people who had hurt her. She wanted to hurt them back.

  “Did an animal get them?” Sid asked, petting Alvin’s back.

  Ashley shook her head.

  “Someone,” she muttered, standing and walking to the garage.

  She shoved the door open so hard it smacked into the wall.

  Sid followed her. When he saw her bike, he gasped.

  Not speaking, he walked into the garage, leaned down, and touched the bent wheel.

  “Travis Barron,” she told him.

  * * *

  They didn’t talk about the bike.

  They watched tv and played with Alvin until Shane knocked on her door that evening.

  Her mother had appeared briefly around five, changed her clothes, kissed Ashley on the temple, and left for her second job.

  “Are we still going?” Shane asked, looking between Ashley and Shane questioningly.

  Ashley realized she’d forgotten it was Thursday. It was time to trap the monster.

  “Better not,” Sid said. “Travis trashed Ashley’s new bike,” Sid explained.

  “No freaking way,” Shane said. “Oh man.” He shook his head. “I’m really sorry, Ashley.”

  “It’s fine,” she said dismissively. “I’ll take the old bike. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t wait for more questions. She had no interest in retelling the story.

  She grabbed the old bike from the garage and climbed on, pedaling onto the road and leaving Sid and Shane hurrying to catch up with her.

  Three blocks over, Ashley saw the birds and pointed. “Look.”

  She stopped in the middle of the street, feeling oddly calm.

  “But Ash, it’s not a good idea. Starfire is busted and-”

  But she didn’t wait to hear more. She jumped on the old bike, grinding the pedals until they clicked into gear and flew into the trees.

  “Meet me at The Crawford House,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  The trail was rough, not one any of the kids used due to all the roots. She made noise as she rode, laughing, talking. She wasn’t sure when she started to cry, but she noticed the cool wetness on her cheeks when the air hit them.

  A sound emerged behind her. She glanced back, expecting to see the creature lumbering through the woods. Instead she spotted Travis Barron, a malicious grin on his face.

  “Haven’t had enough, spic?” he shouted.

  Ashley almost stopped, and she felt her legs slow. She wasn’t afraid of Travis. She wanted to fight. She wanted to toss her bike to the side, find a stick, and whack him across the face with all her strength. But beyond Travis, in the shadows of the trees, a white face glimmered. She faced forward and pumped her legs. The fear that hadn’t been there seconds before stole over her, tracing the back of her neck like cold fingers.

  She shuddered and cursed Travis in her mind. He was going to ruin everything.

  Her brain scrambled ahead to the house.

  Only one entrance and one exit. If Travis ran in behind her, he’d be trapped inside with the monster. A part of her wanted nothing more than to do just that, but knew she couldn’t.

  “Fucking Travis,” she spit, her feet ramming the pedals.

  She hit a root and came down hard, knowing instantly the back tire had gone flat again. Glancing down, she saw the tube breaking loose. It caught, and she had only a second to register what was happening. The bike stopped completely and sent her plunging forward. She leaped to the side,
letting the bike fall in the path.

  She landed on her feet, but then stumbled forward and pitched onto her hands. Behind her, Travis cursed as he ran over her bike, getting tangled and going down as well.

  She didn’t pause, but instead jumped up and ran for The Crawford House.

  “Poser,” she shrieked as she dodged through the trees. She needed Travis to follow her now. If she left him behind, the monster might attack him.

  She hated Travis Barron, hated him more than she’d ever hated another human being, and yet she couldn’t stomach his picture on the news the following morning. She might not make it, but she had to try.

  42

  Percy rode in the passenger seat, staring out the window.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this, Percy?” Max asked for the third or fourth time.

  The man looked pale. His eyes were yellow, and when he’d eaten his breakfast his hand shook so badly it had taken him several tries to manage a bite.

  Percy turned to face him. “The children you told me about…” His face creased, and he touched a hand to his heart. “It’s my fault they’re dead. I brought the bones back. I practically gave them to Dr. Lance.”

  “Do you truly believe he could have fashioned the same dolls the tribe made? And that they’d work? They’d turn kids into the El Lobizon?”

  Percy looked away, watching the trees. “I know he could. I described the dolls the tribe used. I gave him everything he needed. He chose children because he thought they’d be less dangerous. He was wrong.”

  “And I’m meant to believe it’s a child then that’s killing the kids in Roscommon?”

  Percy sighed, rolling the window down and leaning out. When he pulled his head back in, he looked straight ahead as if he didn’t want to look Max in the eyes. “It’s a child’s body, but it is the spirit of El Lobizon.”

  The drive to Traverse City took an hour. When they turned into the tunnel of trees leading to the towering asylum, Percy stiffened.

  “Are you okay?” Max asked.

  “Yes. I’m trying to imagine where he would hide the children. There are areas in the hospital that are closed, including an old children’s wing. We should go there.”

  The children’s wing occupied a desolate stretch on the ground floor of a large building that had been unoccupied for several years. As issues surrounding institutions came to light, coupled with advances in medication, much of the Northern Michigan Asylum had been closed.

  Max pushed on the double doors, but they found them to be locked.

  Percy leaned against a brick column. “Let’s go around the side of the building.”

  As they walked the perimeter, they spotted a light shining from a window.

  Max and Percy crept closer.

  A series of twin beds stood side by side in the space. A rack held boy’s clothes. One corner of the room contained children’s toys, the kind young kids would play with, but Max also saw the types of things older boys would like as well. He noted three handheld video game players on a table. Teen boys’ shoes sat in a neat row by the door.

  The door to the room opened, and a man walked in.

  Percy flinched, nearly falling onto his back. Max caught him.

  “It’s him,” Percy hissed. “It’s Guy Lance.” He clutched his chest, his breathing ragged.

  “Shh… okay. Breathe. Calm down, okay? I don’t think your body can handle all this excitement. Maybe you better wait in the car,” Max said.

  Percy stood up taller, dropping his hands to his sides.

  “Absolutely not. I make amends for my sins, Max. I will not walk away.”

  Max sighed, flustered, but he didn’t argue. “Where are the kids?”

  Percy turned and gazed at the sky. “We’re in the waxing moon cycle, still three-quarters full. They’re experimenting with the bones. The kids are likely under the spell of the El Lobizon as we speak.”

  “What does that mean?” Max demanded. “That they’re out killing people?”

  Percy shook his head. “I certainly hope not. I’m sure they’re confined when they transition. I think I know where they’d take them. There’s a room in the woods. The day I saw Lance with the child, he was taking the boy in there.”

  Max and Percy walked into the dense forest behind the Northern Michigan Asylum. It was a moonless night, and the darkness seemed to harbor all the terrors of childhood, monsters and demons and evil witches who ate children. All the horror stories Max had ever heard felt much closer after hearing Percy’s unbelievable tale, an impossible tale that made a frightening amount of sense.

  They pushed into brush, feeling for the door Percy had described. After a half hour, Max’s fear was replaced by frustration.

  His mind wandered again and again to the worry that Percy was truly mad and Max had embarked on a futile quest and was wasting precious time.

  He walked up to a wall of twisted vines and brush, pushing his hands into the mass.

  His expected the tough edges of a berm, but found chilly emptiness behind the brush. The temperature felt several degrees cooler.

  “I think I found it,” he said.

  Percy ran to where he stood, shoving his flashlight into the darkness and forcing his head through.

  Max followed him, shocked as he stepped through the brush into a dark stone tunnel. It was cool and clammy and stank of sulfur.

  They’d made it only halfway down the tunnel when they saw the first body. The man, a doctor in a white lab coat, lay face down on the stone floor, a dark pool spiderwebbing out from his neck. Max knew what they’d see if they turned him over, a red gash opening his throat.

  In the chamber, they saw four hospital beds with leather straps that had been ripped from the metal frames and lay discarded on the floor. Another doctor sat in a wooden chair, a clipboard on his lap, the white page he’d been writing on saturated in red. His throat lay open.

  “They’ve all escaped,” Percy said, touching one of the straps and cringing. “God help us.”

  “No!” A voice gasped behind them, startling Max and Percy.

  Max turned to find Dr. Lance in the dark tunnel, his eyes bulging as he gazed at the dead man on the ground.

  “You did this,” Percy shrieked.

  Lance’s head shot up, and he stared disbelievingly at Percy.

  “How-”

  “How did I escape? How can I form sentences after all the drugs you gave me? Probably wishing you’d performed a lobotomy right now, aren’t you, Guy? How could you?” Percy’s voice shrilled.

  But Dr. Lance didn’t seem to understand. His eyes had returned to the doctor on the floor. Blood seeped from the wound at his neck.

  Max, too, felt paralyzed by the gruesome scene, unable to think clearly about what must come next.

  Lance stepped to one of the beds, he touched a strap. “They couldn’t have,” he murmured.

  “You did this,” Percy yelled again, though his accusation had lost some of its power. He stumbled to the wall and braced a hand against the stone.

  “Where are the dolls?” Max demanded, finally remembering Percy’s explanation. If they dismantled the dolls, the boys would become children again.

  Lance didn’t speak, he walked to the body of the man in the chair. “Fred?” he whispered, leaning close to the man’s ear.

  Max felt sick to his stomach. The man’s head hung to the side. The gash looked fake, a horror movie prop too revolting to be believed.

  “Guy,” Percy demanded, his hoarse voice revealing his weakening state. “Where are the dolls? It’s the only way to stop them.”

  Lance glanced up, his eyes registering Percy, and finally, his words. He looked around the room, and his gaze paused on a briefcase sitting on top of a pedestal that held a huge leather-bound book.

  “There,” Percy said.

  Max strode to the case and grabbed it.

  The leather suitcase was fastened with a small gold padlock. Max smashed the briefcase against the wall. The second time the clasp
broke and fell to the floor. He laid the case down and clicked it open. Inside the case, he saw three objects wrapped in linen.

  He unwrapped the first and stared at an ugly doll with yellow teeth poking from its cloth face.

  The doll jolted him, and as he gazed at it, a disconcerting sense of déjà vu washed over Max.

  “Three dolls and four beds,” he whispered. “Where’s the fourth doll?” he demanded of Lance.

  Lance stepped away from the doctor in the chair. “Six weeks ago, a boy got away,” he murmured. “He… he took the doll.”

  “One of them escaped?” Max demanded.

  Lance nodded, walked to the bed and lifted one of the straps. “Vern. His name was Vern.”

  “Vern Ripley?” Max said. “Where did he go?”

  “We suspect he returned to Roscommon.”

  Max frowned and glanced at the doll in his hand, still unnerved by the sense he’d seen it somewhere before.

  “Are you saying that the animal who’s killing kids is Vern Ripley?”

  The man stared straight ahead. A shudder coursed up his body. “We had two men out there, but…” he opened his palms. “We couldn’t track him down.”

  “You low down dog,” Percy huffed, but he barely managed the words, leaning heavily on the wall, finally sinking to the floor.

  From the tunnel, a growling emerged, and the doctor’s eyes shot wide.

  “It’s one of them-”

  But Dr. Lance didn’t have time to complete his thought. The boy lunged from the shadows and shoved the doctor onto his back. His gaunt face sunk into the space beneath the doctor’s chin and a spurt of blood burst from the man’s neck.

  “Stop, now. Get off,” Max yelled, grabbing an empty chair and lifting it over his head.

  “Don’t hit him,” Percy called, crawling across the floor to the leather case.

  He pulled the dolls from the case and ripped them apart. Hair and bones and tattered cloth piled at his knees.

  The boy didn’t stop. His hands, the fingernails grown long and yellow, tore at the doctor’s face. The boy’s own face was a smear of blood from nose to chin. He snarled and shrieked, more animal than human.