Ashes Beneath Her: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  He thought of Dawn with her boisterous laugh, despite her soft, feminine voice. He remembered the first time he’d heard her laugh as she sat on the edge of her desk in high school English, gazing at her friend’s caricature of the devil in Dante’s Inferno. The friend had depicted the beast with long, stringy hair filled with bows and Christmas ornaments before scrawling above her drawing: Hell is Christmas in July. The laugh had caught Abe off guard, such a deep, soul-shaking sound, and when she’d noticed him staring at her, she winked and smiled. In the months after her disappearance, he dreamed of her laughter, and woke sick and filled with dread every morning when he faced another sunrise without Dawn.

  He swallowed the last of his coffee, dumped the dredges in the grass, and made his way to the lake. Hands planted on the iron railing that flanked the water edge of Grand Traverse Bay, he stared into the shifting waters. The metallic dark of sky and lake varied only by the spray of stars overhead.

  As he gripped the metal rail, a shuffle sounded behind him. Abe froze, wondering if someone stood in the darkness, having spotted an easy victim to snatch a wallet from. Not that he was weak - at over six feet, and thin but wiry, Abe knew how to take care of himself. However, desperate men were apt to fight a bull if they could sell the hide for a buck. He’d covered enough stories to know the void of night called a certain kind of someone into the empty streets. Pity the person who stumbled upon them.

  He turned slowly, fists clenched, but the sidewalk remained empty, the road beyond as quiet as a tomb.

  The curse of your calling, his dad once told him, in reference to Abe’s tendency to see every situation as a crime unfolding or barely thwarted.

  Abe sighed and grabbed his coffee mug from where he’d left it on the grass. He started for home, walking a block before turning back to gaze a final time at the lake.

  There, in the sphere of light from a post near the water, stood Susan Miner. She half-faced him, her hair unperturbed by the breeze rolling toward the shore. Face tilted toward the great expanse of Lake Michigan, her body angled so he could see the yellow t-shirt with the red mouth. As his eyes shifted down, he took in the dark shorts, bare legs, and a single bare foot.

  The sound of his coffee cup shattering on the pavement shocked him from his daze. He jumped, glanced toward the bits of white ceramic, and then immediately back to her. But Susie had disappeared.

  41

  The Northern Michigan Asylum for the Insane

  Orla

  Ben drew out a small sewing kit and two pairs of pants.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  Orla grinned.

  “Do I mind? I’m elated. My hands have been desperate for a needle and thread.”

  His eyes darted to the sewing kit.

  “Not to attack you with. I promise.”

  He released her arms from the straps, and she lifted her hands, numb and tingling. She rolled her wrists back and forth and removed her gloves.

  “No, wait,” he said, reaching out to stop her.

  “It’s okay. I sew without gloves all the time. I can turn it off. I don’t have to see things.”

  He paused, watching her, and then carried over the pants and sewing kit. He retreated to the other side of the room and watched her from his chair.

  She lifted the sewing kit, having no intention of stifling the visions. The sensation was brief. He’d purchased it that morning. A kind woman with dark eyes and curly gray hair commented how lovely it was to see a man who sewed.

  He’d recently laundered, but when she brushed her finger over the button on the second pair, she glimpsed Dr. Crow ripping the pants from Ben’s body and whipping the young man in the back with them. He lashed the stiff fabric against Ben’s bare back and legs until red welts glared from his pale skin.

  She shuddered, lifted the needle, and gingerly slipped the thread through.

  “Do you know why I’m here, Ben? How I got here?” She thought back to that morning, the tooth in the stones. But Spencer’s mother couldn’t have known what Orla saw, so why did she attack her?

  “Mrs. Crow sent for the doctor. I accompanied him. You were in the woods, unconscious. We put you in the truck and brought you here.”

  “But why? She injected me with something. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “She told the doctor you were dangerous. You’d found something. She saw you. She needed him to erase your memory.”

  “I’m sorry, what? Erase my memory?”

  He shifted in his chair, balling his hands in his lap.

  “It’s called electro-shock therapy. A lot of the doctors here use it. They say it helps with mental problems, but it also affects short-term memory. Some patients lose days, even weeks of memory.”

  Orla closed her eyes, resting the pants on her stomach.

  “Why hasn’t he done it yet?”

  Ben blinked at her hands.

  “Because he discovered your gift.”

  Orla took a breath and slid the needle back into the fabric. For several minutes, she didn’t speak. The rhythm of the needle gliding in and out of the pants slowed her heart rate. She relaxed into the sensation, almost forgetting she was trapped in an asylum in a nightmare she never seemed to wake up from.

  “Why do you do it, Ben? Help Dr. Crow?”

  Ben stood and picked up a mop resting in a bucket by the door. He swept it in ever-widening circles across the cement floor.

  “He’s all I have,” Ben whispered.

  “But why? Where’s your family?”

  Ben’s mouth turned down.

  “My mom gave me up when I was a baby. I grew up here at the hospital. During holidays, Dr. Crow took me home. I don’t have a family, just the doctor.”

  Orla frowned.

  “Do you live with him?”

  “I have a room here at the asylum, and a room in Dr. Crow’s garage.”

  “A garage?” Orla scowled.

  “It’s okay,” he continued.

  “I spent the night with a man named Spencer,” Orla started, thinking back to that night. It seemed a lifetime ago. “Is he Dr. Crow’s son?”

  Ben’s face darkened.

  “He’s the doctor’s nephew. His father died a long time ago.”

  “That’s what he told me,” Orla murmured. “I wondered if he’d lied. Does he know I’m here?”

  “I don’t think so,” Ben murmured.

  “What is that weird room they took me to? In the woods?”

  “The chamber,” Ben said. “I’ve only been inside a few times.” He shivered.

  “What’s the chamber?”

  “It’s a secret place for a group the doctor is part of.”

  Ben looked away. His eyes had taken on a look she’d grown familiar with. He looked like a rabbit sitting in an open field with a pack of wolves surrounding him. If she didn’t tread carefully, he would leave.

  “I won’t ever tell him,” Orla whispered.

  Ben cracked a sardonic smile.

  “If he suspected, you wouldn’t have a choice. Neither would I. He’s given you the truth serum. He has ways of discovering people’s secrets. He could bring in other patients, a patient who sees like you do.”

  “There are others?”

  Ben nodded.

  “They’re all different. He tells me about them sometimes. There was a woman here who could see the dead. She escaped. There have been so many others. There’s a brotherhood…” He shut his mouth, eyes darting toward the door.

  “He won’t come back today. He never does,” Orla murmured.

  “Dr. Crow’s unpredictable,” Ben corrected her. “He wants you to get used to his schedule so he can catch you off guard.”

  Orla frowned. She finished one pair of pants and held them up.

  “Look at that gorgeous seam, Ben.”

  He smiled shyly.

  “Thank you,” he told her.

  “Will you tell me about the brotherhood?” she asked, starting on the second pair of pants.

  He sighed and
leaned against the mop.

  “I don’t ask him questions. The brotherhood is a secret. If he suspected I was curious, he might get paranoid.”

  “But you’ve picked things up?”

  Ben nodded.

  “The doctors come from all over the country. There are other asylums with secret meeting places, though I don’t know which ones. Dr. Crow travels a few times a year to meetings in other sanitariums. They study patients who are special, like you. Some of them can predict the future, others see energy, or auras, they call them. Dr. Crow told me about a woman who could do astral projection. If you gave her an item that belonged to a person, she could project herself to that person psychically. She could give exact details about what they were doing and saying. Dr. Crow found her very intriguing.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Ben shrugged.

  “I don’t know what happens to any of them,” he said sadly.

  “He’s not going to let me go, is he?” Orla asked, fighting tears.

  Ben stopped mopping, his expression pained.

  “No. He won’t ever let you go.”

  Orla clutched the needle and thread and tried not to scream. As she sewed, she felt her mother next to her guiding the needle, pointing out mistakes, teaching her to make it cleaner, better.

  Orla stopped, hanging her head and allowing her tears to fall on Ben’s pants.

  They didn’t speak. He mopped, and she sewed. When she finished, she handed him the needle and thread and lay back on the bed. He fastened the straps and gazed at her for a long time.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, before slipping from the room.

  42

  Hazel

  “There’s been another one.” Hazel stood, and her book fell to the floor.

  Early American Gardens by Ann Leighton lay forgotten on the rug, pages splayed, as she stared at the television.

  “What do you mean?” Bethany asked from a couch on the opposite side of the room.

  “Turn it up,” Hazel said, already striding to the TV and adjusting the volume.

  A reporter stood in front of a little wooden sign reading Welcome to Mancelona.

  “Amber Hill, twenty-one years old, was last seen here at four p.m. yesterday afternoon. She was walking her dog, Chester, a small cocker spaniel. Chester returned to the family home, less than a mile away, after dusk. Amber has not been seen or heard from since.”

  “Oh no,” Bethany breathed.

  “I have to call Abe.” Hazel hurried to the kitchen and dialed his home number. It rang and rang. Next she tried the newspaper, but the woman who answered said he hadn’t been in the office.

  “I’m going to look for him.”

  Hazel got in her car and drove to the diner.

  No Abe.

  When she arrived at his apartment, Liz sat on the cement steps outside. She stood when Hazel arrived.

  “Have you heard from him?” Liz asked, her face pinched with worry.

  “No, I tried to call him.”

  A hopeful gleam rose in Liz’s eyes.

  “Abe’s already on the story. I know it. Maybe we will get him this time.”

  Hazel swallowed.

  If the man had abducted another girl, what did that mean for Orla? That he’d killed her? That she was never coming back?

  Hazel’s breath hitched in her throat, and she cried. A terrible sob ripped from her chest, and she sank down.

  Liz stepped into her, wrapped a supporting arm around her waist, and lowered with her to the steps.

  She didn’t murmur ‘it’s okay’ or ‘everything is all right,’ but tightened her hold, as if to keep Hazel from following her grief into the cracks of the pavement beneath them.

  Hazel cried until she soaked Liz’s shoulder. When she pulled away, her face felt raw and sticky.

  Liz pulled a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to her.

  “Let’s go to the diner. I’ll leave Abe a message to come find us there when he gets home.”

  * * *

  Abe

  When Abe arrived at the missing girl’s house, he was surprised to see three squad cars parked on the small city street. The lawn in front of a two-story blue house, with white shutters and a red door, crawled with officers.

  Abe spotted the parents easily.

  Amber Hill’s mother leaned against her husband, her eyes dark where her makeup had run. The father stood tall, shoulders braced like a football player preparing to get tackled by the oncoming team. His face was stony, his eyes haunted.

  Neighbors lingered in their yards, watching. The couple next door to the Hill’s spoke with an officer, while several more walked up and down the street, asking questions.

  Abe spotted Deputy Beeker, a man he’d worked with a year earlier on a case involving a husband who’d murdered his wife. Abe jogged over to him.

  “Beeker,” he said.

  The deputy looked up, blinked at him in confusion, and then seemed to recognize him.

  “Abe.” He offered him a curt nod.

  “Got a scoop for me?” Abe asked.

  Beeker’s mouth turned down, and he shook his head.

  “You realize I can’t talk to you, right? You’re a stand-up guy, but the task force assembled around these disappearances has issued a gag order. If I so much as slip that she was wearing a pink tank top, the chief will pound me.”

  “Was she?” Abe asked.

  Beeker rolled his eyes.

  “You’re going to release what she was wearing,” Abe said. “How else will people know what they’re looking for? This is off the record, Beeker. I want to help. I’ve got a file on these girls as tall as that tree, and I’m not operating on the chief’s orders or your budget. Give me a break.”

  Beeker walked a few paces away, and waved back some gawkers who’d trickled into the Hills’ yard.

  “Please step back, people. This is someone’s home. Give the family some space. We’ll be down to question everyone in the neighborhood shortly.”

  Beeker ambled back to Abe.

  “I’m not lead on this. She went missing yesterday afternoon. Took the dog for a walk and never came home. The neighbor brought the dog back around nine last night. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Did the leash come back with the dog?”

  “No leash. Now bug off. If the chief shows up….” Beeker trailed off.

  Abe gave him a nod and backed up. He moved closer to a group of people talking.

  “Which way did she walk?” one woman asked.

  “Down that-away,” replied an older man, leaning heavily on a cane.

  “Toward Fountain Park?” another man asked.

  “Yep,” the man replied.

  Abe sauntered off, got in his car, and drove away.

  When he spotted Fountain Park, he hopped out. A single squad car blocked the entrance.

  “Trails are closed today,” the officer barked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Abe returned to his car and followed the road around the park. It was more than a park. Like Birch Park where Orla disappeared, Fountain Park bordered state land. Abe drove half a mile and discovered another unmarked dirt parking lot with a trail disappearing into the woods.

  He pulled onto the side of the road, grabbed his camera, and jumped out.

  There were multiple sets of tire tracks intersected with bike tracks, but one set was predominant, clearly the most recent. The tracks appeared as if someone had stopped at the mouth of the trail - or backed up to it.

  Abe took close-up pictures. He snapped a picture of the trailhead, before moving into the shadow of the trees. The heavy vegetation muted any sound beyond the forest. A squirrel snapped its head up when he passed before returning to its foraging.

  Abe studied the grassy trail, but could not distinguish footprints. A few feet further, he stopped. The tall grass on either side of the path had been trampled, and someone had snapped a branch of a maple sapling. He took more pictures. He imagined a struggle, a woman reaching for something
to cling to and snapping off the flimsy branch.

  Squatting close to the ground, Abe saw a rounded divot that pushed into the dirt. He imagined it was the imprint of a bare knee.

  Further down the trail, he heard voices and knew the police were moving toward him. He took a final picture, and trotted back to his car.

  * * *

  Abe found Hazel and Liz waiting for him at the diner. They sat before plates of untouched apple pie.

  Liz stood when she saw him, knocking over her water glass and sending a rush of lukewarm water into Hazel’s lap. Hazel jumped up and waved her skirt. Liz didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m coming with rags,” Mona called.

  “Anything?” Liz asked.

  Abe shook his head, and Liz’s face fell.

  “But the cops are combing the scene. They’re taking it seriously, which is a good thing. Plus, people are paying attention. If Spencer’s gold sports car or Ben’s green truck was anywhere near Fountain Park, someone will report it.”

  “Fountain Park?” Hazel asked.

  “It’s a big, wooded area, just like the others,” Abe admitted.

  “Which means no witnesses,” Liz fumed.

  “It’s different this time, Liz. None of the other girls had this kind of coverage. There are police, news teams, and people on the lookout. This is the case that will shake him loose. I can feel it.”

  Mona leaned over the table, sopping up water.

  “Thank God for you, Abraham. You’re a good boy. Piece of pie on the house. Tell me your flavor?”

  He smiled, not hungry, though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Have any rhubarb?”

  “Sure do,” she exclaimed. “Baked it fresh this morning.”

  43

  The Northern Michigan Asylum for the Insane

  Orla

  Orla woke in the grip of a nightmare. A man had been dragging her through the woods. Her head bounced over roots and twigs caught in her hair. He wore a black hooded shirt and, in the hand not clutching her ankle, he held a shovel dripping blood.