by Michael Bray
“Depends if we’re talking about the same place. Can you describe it?”
“It’s quiet there. In the woods. The house is set in a little cove, like a cut out in the forest. It’s a good size, and there’s a circular wall on the east corner running the full height of the house. Around back, there’s a river and a bridge, and above the road in the forest leadin’ to the house, there’s a sign hanging on a wooden frame. The sign has the word ‘hope’ on it.”
“How do you know this?”
Truman shrugged. “All I’m tellin’ you is what I see in my dreams. I see other stuff too. Stuff I don’t understand.”
“What kind of things?” Emma said, leaning forward in her seat.
“Just images mostly. Things. I see him sometimes. He’s the one told me someone would be comin’, that I should listen to what they tell me. There are other things too.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know… snapshots. Clips of things that have happen’ at that place over the years. He tells me his body was freed ‘cus it was taken far away from the bad place by the river waters. It’s those unlucky sons of bitches who died there that are stuck. Trapped. I see what happen’ to some o’ them. I see all the people that died there, and I feel what happened to them. I know it’s just dreams, but to me, it’s real.”
“What if I told you I knew what your dreams were about?”
“I’d be curious, but not too surprised. As I said, I guessed a way back these were more than dreams. It’s just not the kind of thing you can go talk to someone about without lookin’ like some kinda nut, ya know? I figured I’d just wait and see if someone turned up looking for me about it all. I guess this means I’m either crazy or involved in some freaky shit.”
“Do you know anything about the place from your dreams? The real place?” Emma asked.
“I looked it up. Did some research online. A lot of what I read kind of tied in to my dreams. What I wanna know is, where the hell you come into this.”
“When you were researching, did you read anything about the hotel?”
“Course I did. It was pretty much all there was about the place until I decided to dig a little deeper. Sounds like some nasty shit went down there over the years. Some real nasty shit.”
“I was there. I survived it.”
Truman gave her the look. The one she always got from people who knew she was one of those who’d lived to tell the tale. “Holy shit. Then I guess maybe you do know what the hell I’m talking about. Sounds like you were lucky,” Truman said.
“If you can call it that. I…” she took a drink of her coffee. It was almost cold, but she barely noticed. “I lost some friends. Some good friends. They were killed that night.”
“Yeah, well, losing people is never easy. If it makes a difference, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My family has a history there. It’s… well, it’s something I don’t want to get into right now. When we know each other a little better, maybe. For now though, it’s not important.”
“Alright, no problem,” Truman said, still gazing at her intently. “But I do need you to tell me what you want with me, and how you think I can help. As you can see, I’m just a guy who washes dishes for a livin’.”
“How much do you know about your ancestor?”
“Not much. I tried to look into his past, but I couldn’t find much. I know he came over as a slave in the early nineteenth century. I know he was married and had a wife and kid, other than that I couldn’t find anything. If you came here to ask me what he has to do with that house, then I’m sorry but I ain’t got a clue.”
“I do. That house, the one from your dreams. He helped build it. He was working for a man called Michael Jones.”
Truman nodded. “I read about that motherfucker. His company went under a few months after the house was built. He just upped and left one day. All of his debts were left to his brother and business partner. Good riddance if you ask me. Damn slave trader.”
“That’s the official story. What you don’t know is your ancestor was the first man to die on those grounds when the house was being built.”
“How do you know that?” Truman said, the mistrustful look appearing in his eyes again.
“The documented history of that place is only part of the story. My grandmother was from Oakwell, she lived there all her life. The townspeople buried a lot of things from the public. A lot of it was never officially recorded.”
“So what happened to him?” Truman asked.
“There were a series of letters, correspondence between Michael Jones and Governor Hughes, which showed Michael’s degeneration into madness. Later, after Michael had stopped responding to the letters, Michael’s brother Francis contacted the Governor to announce the death of his brother, and made reference to a suicide – a hanging of one of the slave workers on the site. That worker was your ancestor. Like his brother before him, Francis’s letters took on a very dark and disturbing tone, and soon he too stopped responding. Concerned by the mention of the deaths on site and lack of communication from either of the Jones brothers, Governor Hughes sent some men to find out what was going on. They didn’t find anything at the house, however they did locate the bodies of both Michael and Isaac. They had drifted downriver, and were found almost twenty miles away. My best guess is that Michael was trying to get rid of the body so it wouldn’t hold up construction. The assumption is that he slipped whilst trying to dump the body in the river, and got washed away along with your grandfather. He wasn’t a good swimmer, although anyone who knows the history of that place knows it was no accident. It rarely ever is in that place.”
“What happened to the other brother, uhh Francis?”
“Nobody knows. His body was never found, and he was never seen or heard from again. My guess is his bones are out there somewhere, undiscovered in the trees.”
“This is some crazy shit, lady,” Truman said, smiling nervously. “What does it have to do with me?”
She reached into her bag on the seat beside her, took out a folder and slid it across the table. “This is all the information I have on your ancestor and the house. It’s everything I’ve found out about how I think we can stop this thing. My number is on the back. I can only stay for a few days before I have to move on as there are others who I need to help me with this. It’s important for you to know I need everyone if I’m to make this work. Just think about it, okay?”
Truman pulled the folder toward him and leafed through the pages.
“I need some time with this. I need to get my head straight, it’s buzzin’ right now.”
“I understand. The address where you can find me is in the front there.”
“Let me think it over,” Truman said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll give you a call if I think I can help you.”
Emma nodded, watching as he went back into the kitchen. She sat for a few more minutes then decided whatever happened next was out of her hands. She glanced toward the kitchen, but couldn’t see Truman. Finishing her coffee, she left in the hope that he would decide to join her.
CHAPTER 15
“You must be the new guy,” the orderly said, striding across the room and thrusting out a shovel-like hand. “Name’s Barry. People in here call me Bear.”
It was an apt name, as Bear stood a good half foot taller than Barlow, who was almost six feet tall himself. Barlow shook the offered hand, watching as his own skinny appendage was swallowed by an ocean of cocoa.
“Pleased to meet you,” Barlow said, filled with the nervous unease felt by those starting a new job. “I’m Ron.”
Bear grinned. He had kind eyes and a dazzling smile which was infectious and set the new arrival at ease. “Well, Ron, you stick with me and you’ll be just fine. I’ve been asked to show you around. You got your swipe card yet?”
“Yeah,” Barlow replied.
“Door passcodes?”
“Uh, not yet.”
“We’ll sort those out later. For now, let me
give you the grand tour of chez Crease.”
Bear led Barlow through the main reception area and punched in his key code, granting access to the inner sanctum of the hospital. Eggshell colored walls were the prevailing theme as the décor tried its best to make up for the grilles on the windows and the locks on the doors.
“So, how long have you worked here?” Barlow asked.
“Twelve years now.”
“Impressive. I take it you like the job?”
“Not all the time,” Bear said, flashing that infectious grin again. “But for the most part, it’s rewarding as hell, that is if you can handle it. This job isn’t for everyone.”
Barlow nodded, happy to stay on the fence rather than offer an opinion until he knew Bear a little better. “So,” he said instead, “anyone in particular here I should be wary of?”
“You need to be wary of all of the patients here, for your own safety as well as theirs. If you’re talking about anyone you might have heard of in the news, then the answer is yes.”
“Who?” Barlow asked.
They came to a security door. Bear swiped the card that he wore on a lanyard around his neck. The magnetic lock clicked, and Bear held the door open, gesturing for Barlow to go through. They were at the top of a staircase, and Bear led the way as they descended three floors, the lighting now much duller compared to the bright, airy feel upstairs.
“I take it you’re asking about the Oakwell massacre?” Bear said, pausing in the corridor.
Barlow said nothing, and Bear gave another grin. “It’s alright. Everyone wants to know about that. Believe me, soon enough the hype will wear off and you’ll be as sick as the rest of us of hearing about it. Come on, I’ll show you what you want to see.”
At the foot of the steps was a caged security station, manned by a small, wrinkled old woman who gave them both a bland look. Bear gave her a cursory nod and again punched in his code, granting them access to a long corridor with doors spaced regularly down both sides. As they walked, their shoes echoed on the polished floors.
“You know what happened I take it? During the massacre?” Bear said.
Barlow nodded, noting even Bear had lost some of his exuberance as they entered the secure wing of the hospital.
“A lot of people now don’t seem as interested. You know what it’s like, new things happen, people forget. Shit, there’s always some new horror in the news to grab people’s attention. For us though, we don’t get to forget. We have to live with this every damn day.”
“Are you from there? Oakwell, I mean…”
“No, not me. My brother lived there for a while though. His business went under and he moved away a few months before the massacre.”
“I remember reading about it. Awful stuff.”
Bear smiled, his eyes glimmering with something Barlow couldn’t quite place. “You think reading about it is creepy, wait until you have to go face it every day.”
“That doesn’t help with the first day nerves,” Barlow said, forcing a smile. Bear, however, didn’t return it. His face had become tight, brow furrowed. He was all business now. It was as if he had left his easy going demeanor with the sour-faced hag at the security station.
“Hell, I’m not trying to freak you out or put you off, my man. All I want to do is make sure you’re aware. We take precautions, and the staff here are damn good at their jobs, but you still need to stay sharp. Keep on your toes.”
“I will.”
“Alright, this is it,” Bear said, coming to a halt at a windowless steel door. In the center, at head height, was a second door with a lockable hatch.
Barlow felt a surge of adrenaline mingling with his fear, making it all the more potent. He couldn’t help but offer up a nervous smile, which again went unreciprocated by Bear. “He’s really in here? Henry Marshall?” Barlow asked.
“He is. You sure you wanna see him?”
Barlow nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. Bear opened the hatch and stood aside, allowing Barlow to see inside.
The cell was small. Cold concrete. Iron bedstead. Stainless steel toilet and sink. The person inside was sitting on the bottom of the bed, facing away from them, staring at the corner of the wall. Barlow couldn’t make out his face, just a sliver of flesh revealed through the greasy, graying shoulder-length hair.
“He always sits there like that,” Bear said as Barlow looked on. “Just staring at that wall. He’s docile enough, it’s just creepy how quiet he is all the time.”
“Maybe he’s a little…” Barlow tapped the side of his temple with his forefinger.
“No, I don’t think he is,” Bear countered. “Sometimes, you’ll catch his eye, and you can see all the lights are still switched on in there. It’s like he’s waiting for something. I don’t know, my man, but whatever it is, it freaks me out.”
Bear closed the hatch, locking it into place.
“Alright,” he said, forcing a smile. “Let’s go see about those key codes, and then we can grab a coffee. I don’t like to be down here any longer than I have to.”
Barlow didn’t argue. The further away from Marshall’s cell he got, the better.
CHAPTER 16
Truman followed Emma through the house, still unsure if he’d made the right decision in contacting her. She had brought him to the converted ranch house, both of them awkward and silent as they successfully avoided the elephant in the room about how they’d come to meet. The house was old, and Truman thought it almost certainly belonged to an older family. Dark wood floors with an overabundance of furniture and ornaments was the prevailing theme. Every surface Truman could see was covered with mementos or photographs. He suspected that at some point in the past, this would have been a vibrant family home, yet all that remained now were echoes of that time left to haunt the place like ghosts. Sunlight, gold and warm, filtered through the study windows, catching lazy swirls of dust in its beams. Truman only noticed this for a second before his attention was drawn to the wall. It was reminiscent of those police dramas, where the plucky detective would pin all of their leads to the noticeboard. Photographs, articles, notes, all linked together with color-coded string.
“This is the entire history of Hope House as I’ve been able to put it together,” Emma said, standing aside to let him see.
Truman looked. Faces he didn’t recognize. Photographs of places that he did from his dreams. It was almost too much to take in, and all he could do was try to assimilate it all, letting his brain filter the cluster of information in front of him. Something caught his eye and he stepped forward to a section of the wall, crouching to stare at the drawing. It was a reproduction of course. Any original would be in a private collection or perhaps even a museum. Even so, its impact was still the same. Truman looked at the image, and beside it, the slavery manifest.
“Holy shit, that’s him,” Truman said, pointing at the portrait of the man. “Isn’t it?”
Emma nodded. “That was the only reference to him anywhere I could find. The drawing was from before he was brought over here to work. The slavery manifest is the only official mention of your ancestor.”
Truman held out his hand, taking the picture by the bottom edge. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”
“Go ahead.”
He unpinned the photograph and sat in one of the high-backed leather chairs by the fireplace. He studied the photograph, committing it to memory.
“The nose is wrong.”
“What?” Emma said, wondering if she had missed something.
“The nose on this drawin’. It’s wrong. The real one isn’t as wide at the bottom. And the forehead is too long. I can tell it’s the same man, though, but he looks different in my dream.” He looked at her, and she saw in him the same confusion that used to plague her until she started to understand. “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“It’s easier to show you,” she said, going to the window. She grabbed a jar from the ledge and handed it to Truman.
“What the hell is this
?”
“Just take it. It’ll all make sense in a minute,” she said, taking a seat opposite him. “First, let me tell you what we need to do to stop this.”
CHAPTER 17
Barlow had been working at Creasefield hospital for three weeks, and had just about found his feet. He had got to know the staff, made a few friends, and had a few close calls with some of the more volatile inmates.
“Hey, man, how’s it goin’?” Bear said as he sauntered into the staffroom and made himself a coffee.
“I’m good. You?”
“All good in the hood, brotha’. You busy today?”
“I’m babysitting the rec room this afternoon.”
“Screw that, my man, ask Todd to do it.”
“And what will I do when Todd is doing my job?”
Bear grinned and leaned close, even though the staff room was empty. “You know when you first started here, and you had a little look at Henry Marshall?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m down to turn his room this afternoon. Nothin’ too taxing. Just changing the sheets, making sure he hasn’t got anything stashed in there. I need someone to help me out if you feel like it.”
“You sure you want to tempt fate? It’s Friday the thirteenth you know,” Barlow said, smiling.
“Come on, man, surely you don’t believe in that shit. How about it, want to help me?”
“Absolutely, count me in,” Barlow replied, just about managing to hide his nervousness.
“Alright, that’s a deal. Meet me downstairs at eleven and you can give me a hand.”
“Eleven tonight?” Barlow asked.
“Hell no, not eleven tonight. This ain’t some horror movie. After morning break, dumbass.”
Barlow grinned, the tension lifted. “I was just checking. I don’t think I’d wanna be in there with that guy at night.”
