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

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Without much trouble, Ulrich dreamt up a few possible ideas concerning the old doctor's whereabouts. Jerome had painted the man as a saint, and though there was no reason as yet to doubt his reputation, there existed, too, a chance that the missing physician's hands were unclean in some manner. Maybe he'd ended up in debt and faked his death to escape creditors. Perhaps there was some scandal involving a patient, or lover, and he'd been taken out to keep the whole thing under wraps. It was possible, too, that he'd just overestimated his strength, fallen somewhere deep in the woods during his hike, and succumbed to the elements. Ulrich smirked as he recalled the nervous way Jerome had referred to the superstitions of the folk down in Vinton county. Glaring down at the smiling doctor, he sighed into his cup. “Or could it be that you were spirited away by phantasms, doctor? Is that what happened?”

  One thing stood out to him, made him achingly curious as he continued through his notes. The message the doctor had received that'd compelled him out to the infirmary to begin with. Who had sent such a thing, and why? It was an awfully suspicious note, and its sender, “A.B.”, whoever that might've been, would have some explaining to do.

  Is it possible that someone murdered the doctor? It was the first time he'd really considered the possibility, and in doing so, he felt the last of his levity leached away. His own self-interest and sense of self-preservation surged to the fore. If Dr. Klein's disappearance was owed to something nefarious, then Ulrich himself might end up walking headlong into danger. And in an unfamiliar, rural area, to boot. Any enemies of the missing doctor weren't going to take kindly to him if he started poking around, that much was certain.

  He grew pensive for a time. Ulrich wasn't a fool; he knew how to keep a low profile, knew better than to telegraph his presence to the town as a whole. He'd have to work covertly, reveal his intentions only to a select few so as to keep his operations a secret and maintain his safety. No good would come of psyching himself out before he even got there. He'd go about this case the same way he did all of his others; by employing a meticulous attention to detail and keeping his wits about him at all times. In all his years as a detective he'd never once been seriously harmed. This time, he assured himself, would be no different, so long as he stuck to the script and didn't entertain the nonsense spewed by the paranoid locals, or frighten himself prematurely by dreaming up villains that didn't really exist. The simplest explanation was most often the correct one, and in this case, the odds seemed overwhelmingly in favor of a simple hiking accident, rather than something grislier, like murder or kidnapping.

  At least, that was what he was hoping for.

  The damned note, yellowed and faded, gave him pause. It was the thorn in his side, the piece that refused to fit into the puzzle.

  He sipped his coffee and jotted down a short timeline of events. The facts were thus: An aging physician received a hand-written note in a mailbox signed only with the initials “A.B.”, asking him to visit a long-abandoned infirmary. The date of the infirmary's closing, sometime in the 1950's, made for the first entry on the timeline. If Dr. Klein's acquaintance with the area was so great as Jerome claimed it to be, then the doctor, of all people, should have known the place to be abandoned. Nevertheless, he still ventured there, on foot, and went missing in the process. Whether he made it all the way to the “Sick House” or disappeared on the way remained to be seen. Ulrich had the names of the last few people who'd seen him; the owner of a diner, his housekeeper. His interactions with these folk, too, were placed on the timeline. It was doubtful that he would glean anything from these people, but he wished to interview them himself upon his arrival in McArthur, face-to-face. He'd also gotten the name of a local historian and friend of the doctor's, a Professor Tillinghast, who could tell him more about the Sylvan Infirmary, and planned to meet with him.

  Armed with this knowledge, he opened a few tabs in his browser and began reading everything he could find about Moonville and its shuttered Sylvan Infirmary. He polished off his coffee as the pages sluggishly loaded. The rattling sound coming from his blocky laptop reminded him of a small plane heading into turbulence. He gripped at the plastic casing of the thing, feeling it warm up slightly for its efforts, and grit his teeth. Come on, old girl. Don't die on me now.

  When he was only a few minutes into his reading one of the young baristas, a college-aged woman with a brown ponytail and soiled green apron, approached his table. “Can I interest you in a refresher?” she asked, pointing to his mug.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” replied Ulrich, handing it to her with a smile.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “It was that Dark Roast Sumatran that's on special. Pour-over, please.”

  Taking this order, she returned some minutes later with a fresh mug. “Sorry to disturb you, you seemed like you were deep into your work. Mind if I ask what you're reading about?”

  Ulrich accepted the mug and palmed it carefully, savoring its warmth. “Oh, just doing a bit of research for a project.”

  “School project?”

  “No,” he said, his grin widening. “Do I look college-aged to you, miss?” He leaned on one elbow, arching a brow. “I'm a private investigator. Brushing up on some things for one of my new cases.” A smug smile followed, coloring his tone of voice with honey, and it was all he could do not to make it sound like a blatant boast.

  Her eyes lit up at once. “Wow, really? That sounds so impressive! It must be a really interesting line of work!” she gushed.

  Ulrich laughed, leaning back in his chair. Brushing a palm against his stubbled cheek, he gave a cool shrug. “Well, you know, a man's gotta eat.”

  It occurred to him as she walked away that she was right. With this case, his line of work was rather fascinating. Usually he had to boast, lie, to make his cases sound worthwhile. Jerome had brought him a real whopper, though, an intriguing case he'd actually be able to take pride in. For so long he'd forgotten why it was he'd entered into this career of his. No longer.

  The spark was back.

  Chapter 4

  The village of McArthur, Ohio, was a nearly four-hour drive from Ulrich's home in Toledo. The largest settlement in heavily-forested Vinton County, its most recent census revealed there to be less than two-thousand inhabitants. Located more than an hour away from the State capitol of Columbus, it appeared a startlingly remote community, insulated by rolling hills and dense woods; among the densest in the entire Midwest.

  And, if Ulrich's frantic Googling was to be believed, they didn't even have a Starbucks.

  The wooded area around McArthur was peppered in relictual settlements, among which was the myth-shadowed ghost town of Moonville, where the bulk of Ulrich's investigation was likely to take place. In fact, as he went about his researches, it became abundantly clear that there was a good deal more interest surrounding the abandoned mining town of Moonville than there was in peopled McArthur. Moonville was the site of some well-known Ohio ghost stories, most of which were centered upon the ancient cemetery found there and a long tunnel once used as part of a now-defunct railroad line. Spirits had allegedly been sighted there on numerous occasions over the course of the past century, and the isolated ghost town was a destination for collegiate thrill-seekers from Columbus and beyond. Uninterested in urban myths, Ulrich spent very little time on articles related to the Moonville tunnel and cemetery, and instead focused his attention on the infirmary, now known colloquially as the Sick House, that once operated there.

  The Sylvan Infirmary, run by a group of Catholic nuns for the better part of eighty years, was located in an area that was, if the satellite maps online were to be believed, almost completely swollen up by the over-nourished woods. A handful of photographs of the house in its prime, a large, two-story structure built of hearty local lumber, were found easily enough on historical sites. Built in an incongruous Garrison style, the infirmary's second story hung distinctively over the first, setting it quite apart from the smaller, simpler homes found in the town. Featuring a
tall exterior chimney, the front of the house boasted three double-hung windows on the upper floor. There were photographs, too, of the nuns with their patients on the grounds surrounding the infirmary. Much of the surrounding woods had evidently been cleared back then, giving the infirm a large area in which to roam and convalesce.

  Tourist blogs, chiefly those belonging to amateur ghost hunters, provided more updated photos of the Sylvan Infirmary. Though the general shape was much the same, it was evident that the building had not been maintained in any fashion since the year 1953, when the infirmary was shut down by State authorities. Even as early as the late 1930's, Ulrich read, it was considered unsafe by local practitioners and the patients were gradually transferred to a newer facility in McArthur. The elements had weathered the structure a great deal, giving it the look of something shabby and unstable, where once it'd seemed proud and sturdy. Trees had begun to encroach upon the grounds where patients once spent their days and the whole of the structure was shaded now in that primordial darkness so characteristic of abandoned properties forfeit to the wild.

  This was where the old doctor had set off to, and it would be among the first places Ulrich would have to go looking for him.

  Ulrich's options for food and accommodations were lamentably few. In downtown McArthur was the Hotel Acardi. This appeared to be the only hotel in the village. There were a few restaurants, reasonably reviewed, within walking distance of these lodgings, but little else worth mentioning. Already he was beginning to dread the drive, the utter remoteness of the place. Still, being isolated from his usual amenities would provide all the impetus he needed to work quickly and efficiently. You'll be there a few days and will make a decent wage for it. Relax. You can survive without access to the internet, to good coffee. Still, as he perused the photographs, spying here and there the sheer abundance of woodland and the unremarkable-looking businesses that comprised the village center, he couldn't help but dismay. The only interesting thing down there would be the case he was working on. It's just as well... no distractions.

  On one blog Ulrich stumbled upon a few juicy tidbits that, even if difficult to verify, were intriguing to him. The condition of the Sylvan Infirmary building was known to be unsuitable for patients as early as the late 1930's, however the nuns running the operation were allegedly reticent to close it down and lose their funding from the diocese in Columbus. The blogger, a local hobbyist, wrote that meager attempts had been made at renovation, however the updates were not sufficient to sway State officials who were determined to shut it down, and in the winter of 1953-54, the doors were closed for good. Rumor had it that the nuns continued working in the building for some time after however, defying the authorities and caring for a few patients who were too unstable to make the transfer to McArthur. This tidbit, if true, proved that there'd been activity at the Sick House after its official closure. Had Dr. Klein been aware of this supposed activity beyond the mid-1950's?

  There was a lot of information to process. Until he could verify the details of this final rumor, Ulrich knew better than to consider it fact. However, as he appraised the most recent photos of the Sick House afresh, his mug firmly in hand, he couldn't but study its double-hung windows and envisage in their dusty reflections hints of clandestine habitation. What secrets did those worm-eaten wood panels and that tumbledown chimney contain?

  Perhaps the nuns still cared for people in that place in the late fifties or sixties, but there's no way in hell anyone's still staying there now. It's obvious just from looking at it. So, why did Dr. Klein go there? He must've known it to be abandoned. Surely nuns aren't still working there? Surely there isn't actually a patient there in need of his care?

  The doctor's motive for traveling to the Sick House was a mystery, and it bothered the investigator to no end.

  ***

  The route was mapped, an itinerary sketched out and a number of pressing questions rendered. Ulrich worked at the cafe until nearly midnight. When finally he packed things up, he'd sucked down four coffees and sat through the whole of Kind of Blue, Getz/Gilberto and half a dozen other things somewhere in between. With a plan firmly in place, he staggered numbly into the cold night, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before setting out for McArthur in the morning.

  His caffeine tolerance was such that the coffees could not touch his fatigue. He was sore all over from shoehorning his lanky frame into the narrow seat and leaning over his computer for so long. A drive of some few minutes in the SUV saw him land at home, and he was only a few moments in casting off his clothes. He set an alarm for the late morning and jumped into bed headfirst.

  But morning came quickly.

  When the alarm insisted on his wakefulness, he shoved it off of the nightstand with a grunt of anger and sat up, palming at his temples. The air was dry and he felt somewhat congested. His sleep had been fitful, and the soreness in his throat seemed to indicate long stretches of snoring. He groggily went about his morning routine, brushing his teeth, standing in a lukewarm shower and then shaving. Though he usually wore a beard, or at least stubble, he thought he might look more professional if clean-shaven and broke out his razor. When that was through, he took to dressing himself. A powder blue dress shirt, slacks, belt and leather boots would make a good impression on the locals without seeming too pretentious. He plucked up his woolen jacket and threw it on over the top. From his laptop bag he took his notes, ultimately deciding to leave the computer behind in his apartment. The old heap might not survive the trip, frail as it was.

  The morning was marked by a biting cold. It was too early in the year for this sort of chill, as far as he was concerned, and he grumbled as he jumped into the SUV, putting the key in the ignition. He let the thing warm up for a few minutes before pulling out of the parking lot and coasting to the nearest Starbucks. There, he ordered an enormous black coffee with a chocolate muffin and pulled the directions from his notebook. He'd pre-planned his route, and would drive most of the way on I-75 South before branching off onto some country roads. The SUV came with a built-in GPS system, and after some fiddling, he managed to hit the right buttons to set his destination.

  The trip seemed simple enough, though as he sipped at his coffee, he couldn't help but bemoan the lengthy drive ahead. Even if everything went according to plan, he was going to face a minimum of four hours behind the wheel. He'd staked out some highway rest stops ahead of time whose facilities he could make use of, but ultimately he had no choice but to power through the drive, with Frank Sinatra as his only companion.

  Chapter 5

  The road that ultimately led him to McArthur was nondescript, gravelly. Where on the lengthy drive he'd gone off the beaten path and started onto the quaint, uncharted length of rain-soaked road that even the SUV's GPS was unable to put a name to Ulrich hadn't the foggiest. One moment he'd been following the southbound stretch of Interstate 75, only to veer off onto a detour due to unforeseen construction. From there, the way had been muddled for him, and a combination of inclement weather and obscure side streets seemed to throw his navigational systems into a tailspin.

  The vehicle had handled wonderfully all the while, and despite his usual aversion to long drives, Ulrich found himself enjoying the trip. It was far easier to make such a journey in a luxuriant vehicle, fueled by hot coffee and singing along discordantly to his disc of Sinatra hits. The gunmetal skies that glowered over him during the portion of his drive from Bowling Green to McArthur were little thought of, and traffic proved surprisingly light. Long stretches of open field, of heavily wooded forest just beyond the shoulder, were robbed of their monotony by the utter novelty he felt at helming the massive SUV. In his Passat the drive would have been a series of bumps and groans from car and driver alike. With its finely-tuned suspension, plush, heated seats and overall spaciousness, the SUV was a whole new world to him. The sound system was crisp, top-of-the-line, and the steering was more responsive than he'd ever thought possible. To him, the vehicle was a marvel, and carved away any displeasure
he might've faced in making the hours-long drive to his destination.

  That is, until the rain began in earnest and complicated matters.

  It'd sprinkled sporadically throughout his drive, however upon his entrance onto that long and unnamed country road which had been mounted in a brief flurry of confusion following the detour, the clouds let loose with what he could only call a tempest. The vehicle, large though it was, became buffeted by strong gusts and sheets of fat raindrops. The road, pebbly and fraught with divots, was quickly awash in a torrent of rain, and the forceful, obscuring patter against his windshield made it so that he could not be sure how much further the slipshod road went on. More than once he considered turning back, finding his way to the highway and reorienting himself.

  Ultimately however, he soldiered on, yielding to his stubborn hunch that this was, in fact, the way to McArthur. The tank was full, thanks to a stop at the highway rest station, and his latest coffee was still hot. It was late in the afternoon, but he figured he had some time to kill even if he was mistaken. Cutting speed, Ulrich drove on carefully, looking at his surroundings through the crashing rain and taking note of the overgrown fields which were very quickly becoming overpopulated with dense rows of trees. Denser than anything he'd hitherto seen.