The waitress came by and set a white ceramic mug on the table. This she proceeded to fill with coffee from a glass carafe, despite his not asking for any. When she was through, she stood expectantly with a pad of paper in hand. All the while the eyes of every other person in the establishment remained fixed on him; the whole place had come to a standstill, with eating and cooking having been suspended on his account. He shrank down a little in his seat under the scrutiny. What, haven't they ever seen an out-of-towner before? Aren't small towns like this one supposed to be hospitable? I mean, if they know who I am, then they know I'm here to do a proper job. I'm not some sightseer. I'm one of the good guys, looking to track down one of their own.
Ulrich looked up at the waitress sheepishly. “I'll have the breakfast platter, along with a cheeseburger and fries,” he said, shifting the paper menu towards the other side of his table. “And an ice water,” he added.
The waitress scribbled this down quickly and then stomped out of sight. Hospitality, apparently, was not her strong suit. From the kitchen Ulrich heard a burst of hushed speech. Just what the staff felt the need to discuss in whispers was hard to say, but Ulrich would have bet his arm that they were talking about how much spit to hide in his ice water. He chanced to peer over the edge of the partition that separated his booth from the next one over, and caught the cook staring conspicuously in his direction. As soon as Ulrich looked over, the man broke eye contact and disappeared around the corner in a flash.
The whole place was making him feel very uncomfortable. He'd expected better treatment than this, or, at the very least, had not expected to be so obviously disparaged against. At the moment he felt like a side-show freak. What did they have against him, exactly? Was this sleepy little town really so opposed to outsiders as this, or was there something about Ulrich in particular that set them off? He'd come to town in the hopes of doing an honest job. There was a missing person to be found, and it wasn't just any person. Ulrich was there to find out what'd happened to Dr. Siegfried Klein, a supposedly well-known and highly respected man. So, what was the trouble? The baleful glances of the folk in the diner made him wonder if he wasn't going to get ambushed and burnt at the stake.
He recalled the note of warning. Someone in this town knows you're here. And that certain someone, whoever they are, could possibly have something to do with the disappearance of Dr. Klein. Maybe they poisoned the well, spread rumors about you, so that your investigation would go nowhere. They want to let sleeping dogs lie, maybe. Spreading lies about you and making the whole town uncooperative would be a good way to shut down the case before it even begins.
He brought the mug of coffee to his lips, savoring in the bit of steam that rose off of it. Though the warmth was very much welcome, the taste of the stuff was another matter entirely. This was cheap, gas station-level brew, and was so bitter he nearly spat it out. Grimacing, he choked down a mouthful and then set the mug aside. It'd been over-steeped, or else had sat on the warmer so long it'd been burnt. “Haven't these savages ever heard of a french press?” he muttered, glaring at his mug. “These beans were probably roasted months ago. And I'll bet they don't even grind them on-site.” He frowned. “I've been served coffee that comes in a can. What kind of place is this?”
He was all too thankful when the waitress silently dropped off a glass of water he could use as a chaser.
Save for the occasional hushed murmuring or the noises coming from the kitchen, the place was silent. It was clear that he'd thrown a wrench in things, had upset whatever jovial mood had existed prior to his arrival. He wanted badly to leave, but the nagging hunger in his gut kept him in place. Hopefully they don't poison my food, he thought, glancing once more over the partition.
The waitress was carrying two plates towards his table. Without a word she set the breakfast platter and cheeseburger before him, along with the check. This, he chose to interpret, as a sign that the kitchen was closed. It was her way of saying, “Now, you'd better get the hell out of here and not ask for anything else.” She didn't come round after that, didn't stop to ask him how his food was or to offer any refills. That suited him just fine. Ulrich dug in at once, eating quickly both out of hunger and seeming necessity. The food had been messily plated, but didn't taste tampered with in any way. All of it was serviceable, about as good as he'd expected, and when the plates were clean, he dug out his wallet and threw down enough money to cover the meal. He also left a few dollars' tip, hoping in some way to thaw the waitress' icy mood. He'd need breakfast again tomorrow, after all.
He stood up and thanked the waitress quietly as he went to leave. She didn't hear him, or else pretended not to, and disappeared into the rear of the kitchen from whence there came yet another series of hushed murmurings. Even as he left the restaurant and pulled out of the parking lot, he felt the eyes of the staff and patrons upon him.
He could only hope that Professor Tillinghast would prove more accommodating than the locals he'd met so far. He was an expert in local history, and stood among the only people in town who might be able to shine some light on what he'd encountered the previous day in the Sick House. Straightening his rear-view mirror, Ulrich took off down the road in search of the Historical Society building.
Chapter 11
Detailed directions to the Historical Society were not easy to come by; the two pedestrians Ulrich stopped and asked seemed of the same disagreeable disposition as the folks in the diner, and almost gave the impression that they wished to mislead him. Despite their bald attempts at misdirection, Ulrich eventually found his way, discovering the modest little building just down the road from a gas station at the end of a long gravel drive.
It was a squat but sturdy little thing, built of dusty red bricks and appearing just large enough to avoid the status of “kiosk”. It was fronted by a white door, brightly painted, and featured a sign. The sign read, in neat, Arial print, THE VINTON COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY WELCOMES YOU.
A small window looked out towards him as he scaled the moist lawn, a collection of knots and divots spanning the hump of land. Standing upon the concrete porch, which was flanked by black iron railings on both sides, Ulrich cleared his throat and rapped gently upon the door. He didn't have to wait long for an answer, as the door was pulled open abruptly and a small man of perhaps sixty years and studious cast stood before him.
“Yes?” said the man, peering upward and adjusting the brassy frames of his bifocals against the crooked hook of his nose. The character of local historian could not have been more faithfully rendered than this, and so striking was the caricature that Ulrich had to stifle a laugh.
“I'm very sorry to bother you. My name is Harlan Ulrich, and I was hoping to share a word with Professor Martin Tillinghast, of the Vinton County Historical Society.”
The old man, the collar of his beige shirt thrown open and his vest sagging against his thin frame, cracked a toothy smile. “Well, I am pleased to report, then, that you are in the right place, and that you're presently face-to-face with the whole of the region's historical society.” The man's posture was corrected, and he stood up taller, his chin rising a few degrees in the hope of telegraphing pride. “With what might I assist you, Mr. Ulrich?” He stood aside, inviting his visitor into the building, which apparently featured only a single room.
Ulrich stepped inside, having to stoop as he entered through the doorway, and had a look around. There was one door, which may have led to a bathroom. Beyond this, there was a desk with one chair on either side of it and several rows of shelves stocked with handsome leather folios. Scarcely anything else entered into view. Within the space the smell of paper, of studiousness, seemed to permeate, and Ulrich was transported at once to the libraries and booksellers of his youth. He was knocked from reverie when his host waved him over to the chair opposite the desk. “What brings you here this fine day?”
“Yes,” began Ulrich, clearing his throat, “I'm very sorry to take up your time. I'm an out-of-towner, and am looking to do some researc
h. I was hoping you could tell me about a local site... shine a little light on its history for me.”
The doctor laughed, dropping into his chair and leaning back. He wore a mustache in a closely-shaven style, and it framed the border of his upper lip with exactitude. Bringing a pinky finger to this feature he took to gently brushing it with his fingertip, as though setting the very fine hairs into place, and arched a brow. “There is no need to apologize, Mr. Ulrich. I assure you that in this little town of ours we've nothing but time. Certainly I cannot be said to be overworked this day. I was about to head out for an extended lunch when I heard you knock, though the prospect of putting these volumes to use is far more appealing a use of my time, methinks.” He motioned to the room about him, at the hundreds of black folios that surrounded them. “Furthermore, I can tell you're an out-of-towner; I feel confident in saying I know everyone in and around McArthur. It isn't a difficult thing when there are merely one-thousand, eight-hundred and ninety-one citizens to account for.” He frowned a little. “No, I suppose that's incorrect. There are one-thousand, eight-hundred and ninety at present. I forgot that Mr. Lapointe, a local barman, passed of pneumonia last week.”
“Remarkable memory,” replied Ulrich, nodding.
“Not so remarkable, in fact. I wear many hats in this town. I am tasked with tracking the census from year to year, you understand, so it is no marvel that I should know such things.”
Ulrich chuckled a little. “Indeed. I thought for a minute there, when you'd made an error in your calculations, that you'd failed to account for Dr. Siegfried Klein. I understand that he's well-known in these parts, and that he's recently gone missing?”
Tillinghast inhaled sharply, then leveled less friendly a stare on Ulrich than he'd hitherto done. “Oh, is that what this is about?” He wet his lips, tracing the black line of his mustache with yet more fervor. “You will excuse me, of course, if I find such discussions distasteful. I care little to converse about the events that have thrust our town into regional gossip, or to fuel the speculations of out-of-towners in matters that are none of their concern. The townsfolk have talked about nothing else since he went missing, and I am loathe to add any fuel to that fire, so if you'll excuse me, Mr. Ulrich, you've come to the wrong place for gossip. Moreover, the doctor was a longtime friend of mine, and I am unwilling to tolerate the poisonous rumor that surrounds his disappearance. It is injurious, and only those without respect for the deceased would discuss such things casually, much less travel all the way here just to gawk.”
Ulrich waved his hands in the air, shaking his head. “No, no, you misunderstand. You see, I'm a private investigator who's been hired by the family to find him.” He donned a grin. “And unlike you, I'm not ready to declare him deceased just yet. My interest is purely professional. I'm not looking for superstitious talk or hearsay. Just some facts to aid me in my search. As a friend of his, I hope I can count on your cooperation. The other folk in town have proven... well, unhelpful. They don't seem to want me here at all, in fact.”
This seemed to calm Tillinghast, and he nodded sharply, folding his hands and bringing them to his chin gravely. “It doesn't surprise me that the townspeople should mistreat you or regard you with suspicion. They probably expect any out-of-towners to have been drawn to McArthur by rumors of queer happenings and the doctor's disappearance. This region, you see, has long seen steady visits on the basis of its being a hotbed of the paranormal. This is not the case-- no supernatural phenomena of substance have ever been recorded here to my knowledge, and if such a thing had been recorded, well, I should know of it. But the superstitions of the locals and the setting itself lend themselves to stories, and then people, sometimes journalists, come sniffing around and...” He shook his head slightly. “Well, what is it you wish to know, exactly? An investigation has already been taken up by the authorities and nothing was found. I don't doubt your skill, but I'm unsure what you wish to find, or what you think I'll be able to provide you in the way of evidence. Any hope of finding Siegfried alive, I fear, is foolish.”
At that moment, Ulrich rather did doubt his skills as an investigator. He was at a loss as to how to best broach the subject of his investigation. Should he start, perhaps, with the events of the previous day? With the incident that had seen him fleeing from the Sick House after being spooked by something he couldn't explain? The handprint on his forearm began to itch like mad, and Ulrich tugged on his shirt sleeve to keep it out of view. “Erm,” he hesitated, “Well, I understand the doctor went missing en route to the former Sylvan Infirmary.” Keeping his eyes low, Ulrich flipped to a clean page in his notepad and plucked a pen from his breast pocket. “Is there anything you might tell me about that place?”
Tillinghast pursed his lips, standing up and scanning his vast collection before plucking a few hefty volumes from their shelves. “The Sick House?” he cleared his throat, dropping into his seat and thumbing through the first of three impressive tomes. “I could tell you many things about it, indeed. It is not the proudest fixture in this town's storied history, that much is certain.”
The next question dribbled from Ulrich's lips before he even knew what he was saying. “Is the place haunted?” He tensed in the next instant, immediately regretting it.
The professor's gaze narrowed, and he looked up from the volume. “Now, what part didn't you understand about avoiding superstitious gossip, Mr. Ulrich? To hear the paranoid locals talk about it, then my good friend the doctor was dragged to the Pit by phantasms in that place. It's a vile, poisonous bit of rumor that only serves to bring negative attention to the area. I should hope that a professional like you isn't fishing for garbage of that kind.”
“Sorry, I meant to say that I'd heard it was haunted from a few sources. I was wondering why it carried such a reputation.”
Returning to his reading, Tillinghast gave a little shrug, licking at his thumb as he turned the pages. “Why? Well, I think that's clear enough. It was an infirmary. Many people died there over the years. It's a sorry old building in the middle of an overgrown ghost town. Tickles the imagination in its way, wouldn't you say? What else might the locals make of it? Someone goes out there, sees something they can't immediately explain in one of its windows, or hears something they can't name on the wind, and suddenly it's a gateway to Hell itself.” He sighed impatiently. “There is no fountainhead from which these rumors sprang, not to my knowledge. It was merely the general feeling of the place that awarded it its reputation amongst ghost hunters and the paranoid folk of this town. Rest assured it's a dangerous place; all old, tottering buildings of its kind are. But haunted? Don't make me laugh.”
“Right. And, how many people would you say died there, while it was open?” Ulrich tapped his pen against the blank page, crossing his legs.
“Quite a few. The number is hard to pin down with any accuracy because record-keeping in those days was less than meticulous. The records, you understand, were lost or frequently tampered with; the sisters who ran that operation were not keen to lose their funding, and so the number of deaths was likely underreported, perhaps vastly. This fact has come out in the years since, an open secret of sorts. The nuns in charge have long since passed on however, so no charges were ever brought. More people surely died in that place than anywhere else in Moonville.”
“I see.” Ulrich traced a little circle in the air with the tip of his pen. There'd been nothing so far for him to write down, nothing that he hadn't learnt through research of his own.
“See here,” said Tillinghast, passing the folio to Ulrich. It featured an old map, seemingly hand-drawn and rich with detail. This map covered what was once Moonville, and highlighted a number of features, such as the old railroad, the well-known tunnel and the Sylvan Infirmary. “This was Moonville in its heyday. There were many streets threading throughout the village back then, though most of them are lost to the overgrowth today. And here,” he said, tracing the site of the infirmary, “is our Sick House. It was constructed in 1875, staffed
by the Sisters of Mercy. Officially it closed in 1953, but was known to operate off the record, and under the noses of State authorities who'd deemed it unsafe, into the late 1950's or even early1960's. There was some disconnect between the diocese in Columbus and State officials, probably due to a tampering of the paperwork by the sisters in charge, that allowed the infirmary to continue operations in a clandestine fashion. The sisters believed in the work they were doing, despite the fact that their facilities were unsuitable for patients, and they were loathe to give up the funding that had sustained their order in this area for so long.”
“These nuns, are any of them still around? Is there a, uh... convent or something, in town?”
Tillinghast nodded. “Why, yes I believe that there is at least one of the sisters left who staffed the Sick house in its latter years. We haven't a convent, but Sister Ruth lives outside the church on Lancaster street, and may be willing to speak with you if you think her experiences may be of use in your investigations.” He furrowed his brow. “Though, I don't see why they would be.”
Ulrich wasn't about to mention the real reasons for his intense curiosity surrounding the Sick House to this dyed-in-the-wool skeptic. He'd encountered something there that he couldn't explain, and felt, somehow, that it might be related to his investigation. Maybe Dr. Klein had been drawn to the Sick House by that thing-- perhaps it had been the letter-writer, and upon his arrival he'd been attacked by it. There was no telling what “it” was, in this case. A ghost? A deranged, deformed squatter? Still, the case had taken for him a markedly unnatural turn, and if he was to continue his investigations, he felt it worth his time to pursue matters from every angle, no matter how unconventional.
“Why do you think Dr. Klein decided to visit the infirmary? I mean, it'd been closed for years...” Ulrich cocked his head to the side. “Surely he knew that?”
The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 9
