The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Ulrich jotted down a note and then pressed his fingertips together. “And then?”

  “Well, that's the last I've heard of him, unfortunately. Next thing I know, I'm getting calls from people he knows, asking if maybe he's come up to Toledo for a visit with me or something. No one's seen him in a while-- not since he supposedly planned to visit that Sick House place. His housekeeper says she saw him setting out. The owner of a diner in town swears he came in for a meal before heading off on foot, but other than that, no one's seen him. It wasn't such a long walk; he probably could have walked the whole way and back in about half a day. But he hasn't turned up. It wasn't long before the cops got involved. They went looking for him, of course, but out there we've only got access to the State Highway Patrol, and they're already mighty overworked, so they didn't make much headway. Searched a lot of woods, a lot of fields, even paid the old Sick House a visit.”

  “And what did they find?” Ulrich was leaning forward in his chair, brow furrowed. He licked at his upper lip. The case was proving more and more interesting to him by the moment.

  “That's the thing; they didn't find anything. That old place looked like it'd been abandoned for years and years. Locals say that it's been empty since the fifties. I wouldn't know anything about that, as it was before my time. But no matter where they looked, they found no sign of him. It's like he just got swallowed up as he went walking down the road.” Slowly, Jerome handed Ulrich the piece of yellowed paper in his hand. “This is the note he got in the mail, asking for a visit. It was on his desk in his apartment, and I snatched it up because I thought it might be important.”

  Accepting the note, Ulrich cleared his throat and inspected it with some thoroughness. The script was flowing, feminine and not a little antiquated. The paper, too, showed obvious signs of age, with its corners being all the yellower for over-exposure to the sun. The slip felt coarse against his fingers and reeked of dust. Before he'd even read a single word he found himself crinkling his nose in disgust.

  The message found therein was simple and innocent enough: Attention, Dr. Siegfried Klein of McArthur. Your expertise is requested at the Sylvan Infirmary in Moonville. The sisters require a consultation on a patient whose condition is quite dire. Please make haste.

  The letter was undated, but was signed with the initials “A.B.” Setting the paper down, Ulrich pressed his client. “Who is 'A.B.'?”

  “I have no idea. Cops weren't sure either.”

  “This Sylvan Infirmary, I take it that's the proper name of this so-called 'Sick House'?”

  “Yes. No one calls it that anymore, though. It's just the Sick House to the people down there. And, I tell you, the locals don't seem to like the place a whole lot. They have all kinds of stories about it. They say it's haunted, that the spirits of former patients are trapped there, or that just walking in can get you really and truly damned. I heard that--”

  Ulrich smirked, raising up one of his hands. “Superstitions, you mean? Yes, it would not surprise me to hear that a bunch of backwoods yokels have spooky stories to share about an old infirmary in the middle of a ghost town. Please, Jerome, don't muddy the waters with talk of urban legends and the like. I'd much prefer for us to handle this investigation in a reasonable fashion.” He sniffed the air, turning his attention once more to the note. “It was run by nuns?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it's been abandoned since the 1950's?”

  “By all accounts, yes.”

  Ulrich nodded. “So it seems your uncle may have been lured there under false pretenses. Tell me, did he have any enemies? Anyone who would see him killed or kidnapped for any reason?”

  Jerome seemed genuinely offended at the question, and denied it vehemently. “Not in the least. I'll tell you one thing, and I'd swear it on my life, my uncle is a kind, giving man. Everyone loves him. It's simply unthinkable that someone out there would want to hurt him. He's a local, grew up in McArthur, and has given so much back to that community. It's out of the question. I'm convinced that there was simply some kind of accident. Maybe he hurt himself and got lost. Or...” His eyes wandered for a time, and some of his earlier timidity returned in the form of a slight shudder.

  “Or...?” said Ulrich with an arch of his brow. “The boogieman of the Sick House got him? Is that it?”

  Jerome said nothing, but lowered his eyes as if in shame.

  “Your uncle... has he a wife? Any children of his own?”

  To each of these inquiries, Jerome answered in the negative. “No, he never married. And he doesn't have any kids. When my father passed twenty years ago, he stepped into my life and helped me out with a lot of things. Paid for school and whatnot... I guess he's always treated me like his son, and I look up to him as a kind of father figure.”

  Lot of good that did, his paying for your school. Here you are selling used cars for a living. He must be so proud of you. Ulrich's lips curled into a smirk, but he banished it as he stood up from behind his desk. He set his empty mug on the windowsill and put his hands behind his back, pacing thoughtfully between the desk and closet. The carpet in this spot was well-worn from countless such episodes in the past. This was his favorite place to think. “If this is the case, and you were the one contacted about his disappearance, then I imagine you're considered Dr. Klein's next of kin? His heir, perhaps?” He shot Jerome a narrow look and tried to beat back another grin.

  Jerome appeared flabbergasted, and threw out his chubby hands in defense. “I-it's not like what you're thinking.”

  Ah, so this was the true source of Jerome's nervous demeanor. The man didn't want to look like the guilty party. Still, he didn't appear to be the culprit, despite having everything to gain in the event of the victim's death or disappearance. “Sure, sure,” replied Ulrich, stroking at his stubbly chin amusedly. “And what am I thinking, precisely, Jerome?”

  “Y-yeah, my uncle's written me into his will as his heir a-and he's left me quite a lot in the event of his passing, it's true.” Jerome gulped. “But it's not like that. I wouldn't want anything to happen to the man, and I sure as hell didn't have anything to do with it, if that's what you're saying.”

  Ulrich chortled, dropping a hand into his pocket and looking to his client with a mix of pity and amusement. “I've no reason to doubt what you've said, though if your uncle really is as well-loved as you say and he had no enemies to speak of, then, as of now, you're the only one with a motive that I can think of.” In watching Jerome's eyes widen, Ulrich continued. “Fair enough, though. I trust you, Jerome. Your uncle has disappeared on a hike to some abandoned infirmary and you'd like for me to find him. I think I can handle this case. Perhaps he really did just suffer an accident on the way. It's very possible that there's no culprit in this, no foul play whatsoever. Though, that note there gives me pause.” He stretched a little, straightening his posture and puffing his chest out. “There are a few things I'll need before I begin, however.”

  Jerome's eyes lit up and he sat upright. “Just say the word! I'll do all I can.”

  Ulrich took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. In the corner, he found a small brown ring marring the drywall. Focusing on the bit of water damage, he grimaced and began tracing his route mentally. “In order for me to get from Toledo to McArthur, I'm going to have to do a good bit of driving. Likely three to four hours, depending on traffic. You say that the roads are poor near the ghost town of Moonville, however it is chiefly in this area that I'll need to conduct my investigation.” He turned to Jerome and grinned. “You deal in cars, yes?”

  Jerome chuckled. “Well, yes...”

  “I'll need something reliable to drive there in. Something meaty, big tires. You understand?”

  “Sure, sure,” replied the client, pawing at his knees. “I... can borrow something from the dealership and lend it to you for this case, no problem. A hearty SUV or truck. Anything else?”

  Ulrich licked his lips. “It must have a CD player.”

  Jerome cocked his head to
the side. “Wait, a CD player? That's not a problem, but... why?”

  Ulrich looked to his boombox for a moment, which was still spitting out a steady stream of Sinatra. “Do not question my methods, Mr. Klein.” He cleared his throat. “Aside from this, I'll require money for gas and half of my payment up front. I've a short contract here for you to sign, should you decide to take me up on my terms. Fair?”

  “Yes, sir! That won't be a problem.”

  Nodding firmly, Ulrich knelt down and wrenched open the stubborn bottom drawer of his desk. Within, there were numerous manilla folders. Flicking through them, he found a folder stuffed with blank contracts and removed one. It was a simple document, a mere two pages, and somewhat faded for its having been Xeroxed dozens of times over the years. “Review the terms of payment and place your initials after each line, Mr. Klein. Then, I'd like for you to sign at the bottom of the second page. When you've done that, I'll take half of my payment, the keys to a suitable vehicle, some money for gas and some small details to aid me in my search; addresses, names, things of that nature.”

  Jerome leaned over the edge of the desk and slowly signed off on the terms. He'd made it half-way through the list when something caught his eye. He looked up incredulously, cracking a smile. “What... what's this here, about a bag of single origin coffee being included in your payment?”

  Ulrich said nothing for a time, but merely stared his client in the face. “Well,” he eventually replied, “I suppose that we are short on time for this case. I'd be willing to accept a Starbucks gift certificate instead.” He stamped his foot down theatrically. “A man needs a muse, Mr. Klein. Something to keep him going when things turn sour!”

  Shaking his head, Jerome returned to the contract.

  Chapter 3

  It wasn't that Ulrich didn't have a car of his own; it was that the newish SUV that Jerome lent him was better suited to the trip ahead than his own aging Passat. The bells and whistles it came with, half of which he didn't even know how to use, may have been superfluous; but as he drove the thing to his apartment there was one thing he couldn't deny.

  His Best of Sinatra CD sounded damn good in it.

  When the arrangements had been made well into the afternoon, Jerome had driven over the SUV, dropped off the keys, half of his payment in cash, and gas money, as per Ulrich's instructions. Moreover, tucked into the sun visor, had been a Starbucks gift card for twenty-five dollars to keep him going on his journey. Jerome's only request was that Ulrich take good care of the vehicle; it was a lender, a high-end model usually reserved for employees at his dealership. “Please, bring her back in one piece,” he'd urged.

  Pleased with all of this, Ulrich had done his part and gathered some other details to aid him in his investigations. A photo of the missing doctor, the addresses and names of those who'd known him well, Jerome's own contact information, the names of the State Highway Patrol personnel who'd carried out the initial investigation and more. With his notepad well-stocked with information, he bid Jerome a good evening and set off for his apartment just as the sun was beginning to set and a terrible cold was settling in over the city.

  His one-bedroom apartment was in an older building, a five-minute car ride from his office, and a good deal less cluttered. He spent little time there, and so had no occasion to accumulate the mounds of junk he kept in his office. It was a space he used for sleeping, eating, doing laundry and putzing about on those rare days when he didn't bother going to work. Mounting the stairs of the austere lobby, he entered his unit and locked the door behind him. Once inside, he blindly ran a hand across the wall and nudged a light switch, turning on the chintzy brass chandelier in the living room. One of the bulbs had gone out, leaving the place dimmer and smokier-looking than normal. The air was cold, nearly as cold as it was outside. Just like his office, Ulrich chose to keep the heater on low in order to minimize his heating bill, and hoped that the adjacent units would insulate his own.

  Rubbing at his arms, he tossed the keys to the SUV onto a side table and paced into the kitchen for a glass of water. He considered fixing himself a simple supper before starting into his pre-investigation research, but upon peering inside the fridge he found only a jar of old mustard and a clamshell of wilted lettuce. Sighing, he ambled into the bedroom. The bed, wildly unmade, was cluttered with flattened pillows and a book he'd fallen asleep with the previous night. He'd been reading a Raymond Chandler novel, and at glancing it he felt the intoxicating pull of distraction. No, no reading books tonight. You've got work to do. Real work, for once. Picking up the half-fallen comforter, he tossed it onto the bed and made his way to the closet.

  From the very back of the narrow closet he pulled a grey, heavy woolen coat. Patting it down and watching as small clouds of dust escaped from the dense material, he set it on the bed and then took to picking out a few more articles well-suited to the cold weather he'd have to face during his investigation. This case would see him spending a good deal of time outdoors in the chill autumn. The last thing he wanted was to come down with a pneumonia for his trouble.

  An old valise was packed carefully with dress shirts, undergarments, slacks and more. Enough clothes to last him a few days. When he'd filled in the empty spaces with toiletries and some other small items, he hauled the thing out to the living room and set it beside the front door.

  The apartment didn't seem especially inviting to him tonight. He decided he'd head out to a cafe, get a bite to eat and do his research till closing time. It was approaching 7 PM. If he hurried, he could find a table at Grounds for Thought, the cozy cafe downtown that served great sandwiches, before all of the college students staked out the best spots. He took up his laptop bag from its spot on the worn leather sofa in the living room. When the lights were out and the door was locked, Ulrich set off for the cafe. Tapping confusedly at the stereo, whose numerous buttons promised of bewildering and frivolous effects, he finally got his CD to play. He sang along to “I'll Be Around” on repeat until he entered the cafe parking lot.

  ***

  The cafe was bustling for a Monday night. Ulrich walked in, the collar of his jacket pulled up to his ears, and stepped to the back of a long line just as “Flamenco Sketches” was winding to a close from a nearby record player. From behind the counter the smell of dark roast coffee reached out and slapped some warmth into his flushed cheeks. Rubbing his hands together, he adjusted the strap of his bag, the heavy computer within putting a strain on his shoulder. There were a handful of open tables in the far corners of the shop, any one of which would do nicely. Breaking from the line he ambled over to the table nearest the long window that faced the street outside and set down his bag. He pulled from it his laptop, a chunky old thing that froze up on him with little provocation and hiccoughed through even the simplest of applications. Plugging it in, he waited for it to boot up completely before ambling back to the line and placing his order.

  Ulrich opted for a roasted turkey sandwich and a tall black coffee, paying for it with one of the crisp twenties Jerome had paid him with. As he handed over the bill to the cashier and accepted his change, he found himself thinking about the case at hand for the very first time since that afternoon. Very soon, within the next twenty-four hours, he'd be seeking out a missing person in an unfamiliar place. It was more excitement than he'd had in ages, and the details of the case made for not a little intrigue. Taking his food over to the table, he sat down and started into his sandwich, browsing the web mindlessly for a time.

  Try as he might however, he could not keep his thoughts from returning to the case.

  What was this feeling?

  Was he actually looking forward to his work? It was unthinkable.

  A missing doctor in a rural ghost town. A note on yellowed paper from a mysterious sender. This was a step up from his usual work. Ulrich was pleased with himself, felt like a proper detective for the first time in a long while. Hudson can get lost. He passed up a good one this time. He'd recently gone looking for missing pets, had looke
d into illicit extramarital affairs carried out in seedy hotels and entertained other cases of a similarly tedious nature. But this time, he had something respectable and exciting. Grinning, he dug into his meal and thought about how great a story this one would make. Oh, he'd find the old doctor. Dead or alive, he'd find him out there. Ulrich would carry out a thorough investigation, cut through all of the superstitious crap that the locals clung to and emerge as a man of reason, an unparalleled mind. This one, he felt, would make for quite the notch on his belt, perhaps a major highlight in his memoirs.

  Ulrich opened his notebook, finding within the mess of notes he'd taken throughout the day. Tucked between the first two pages, was the picture of the missing doctor Jerome had given him for reference. Though some years old, the picture was recent enough to be useful to the investigator. It'd evidently been taken at some holiday function, with the doctor, a tall and somewhat thin man not altogether different in frame than Ulrich himself, standing against a wall draped in colorful garlands. He wore a broad, warm smile across a cleanly-shaven face and appeared rather youthful despite his years.

  Jerome had claimed the man to possess a good deal of strength and energy, and this claim was certainly borne out in the man's stature and air of intelligence. The eyes, their corners wrinkled in a smile, carried something within them of brightness and exactitude. These were the eyes of a man whose soul had been tempered by years of important work and constant study. He was largely bald, with a wreath of grey, wispy hair flanking the sides of his head. Bespectacled, the doctor was dressed conservatively in a black suit jacket, white shirt and simple tie. Placing the photograph on the table beside his computer and setting his now empty plate aside, Ulrich cleansed his palate with a sip of coffee and squinted at it, rocking very slightly in his seat. “Where have you gone, doctor?” he muttered under his breath.