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

by Ambrose Ibsen

  At this, Tillinghast kneaded his temples. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, but spoke up with a start as something surfaced in his memory. “A good question, indeed. I can't give a concrete answer, but what I can tell you is that Siegfried worked there briefly as a medical student. Not many people know this. He never really told anyone. As a part of his residency, he did volunteer hours at the infirmary. I doubt that he worked there after it was officially shut down-- I can't remember the exact time of his volunteering-- but it occurs to me that some associate from back then might've blackmailed him. This is complete speculation on my part, mind you, but if he did in fact work there after it was shut down, illegally, then perhaps he viewed it as a kind of blight on his otherwise excellent career. Maybe he wouldn't want it to get out; though, I must say it's been so many years that he needn't concern himself. No one would repeal his license for having done 'under the table' sort of work as a student, and his reputation would not be tarnished by such a revelation. Siegfried was a friend of the community, known far and wide for his skill and compassion. What I've told you is my best guess. I can think of no other reason that he would visit the place. Still, it is unthinkable to me that someone should bear ill will towards the man.” He cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair and smoothing over the front of his vest. “I understand that he received a note calling him to the infirmary, is that right? When questioned, the investigating officers had made mention of some written request... they were vague about it, however.”

  Ulrich nodded, plucking the note from his notebook and handing it across the desk to Tillinghast, who accepted it with great interest. “Seems that someone sent him this about a month back, and he decided to follow up.” He frowned. “Very strange, though, that he should put any stock into this letter. It's an old message. Who could have sent it, and for what reason? I mean, of all the places to lure the guy, why the infirmary? His nephew, Jerome, also claims he's well-liked around these parts, so I'm not sure how I feel about the blackmail angle.”

  Tillinghast handed back the note. “The note meant something to him; it was apparently enough to get him to go back. Why he did it, and where he ended up, are things we will likely never know, however.” Sighing, the professor licked his lips. “It is a sprawling wilderness that surrounds this little town of ours, Mr. Ulrich. A sprawling wilderness indeed. I pray that Siegfried, wherever he may be, did not suffer in the end. I expect that his body is somewhere in the field, obscured by overgrowth where none will ever find him; a result of a misstep deep in the woods. It is just as well. The man adored the outdoors and fancied a good hike. I can think of no better resting place. And, if someone did blackmail him, then one hopes that he will eventually be ferreted out and forced to pay for his crimes in a court of law. But I digress; that's merely an unfounded theory, and a tenuous one at that. Pardon me for my speculation. I hope that I haven't colored your perception of the facts with my conjecture.”

  The professor continued. “Anyhow, I thank you for what you're doing. The townsfolk, however, are a close-knit, secretive type, and are unlikely to provide you with anything of substance where these matters are concerned, lest you turn out to be one of those blabber-mouthed, big-city types who takes our small-town gossip to press. I tell you, a few years ago, during a sighting in the Moonville Tunnel, we had journalists coming from Columbus and beyond, spreading miserable fairy-tales. The reason the folk in McArthur tend to distrust outsiders is because they're tired of their town being made into a laughing stock, a place whose only intriguing aspects are supposedly haunted locations. Though, it doesn't help that they themselves talk of nothing else. Most tourists come poking around in search of ghosts and devils. They don't care about McArthur or its history. It's a good thing you're here to do work of this kind, and not reporting on some incidence of haunting. They're unlikely to talk to you as it is, though if you were writing up some vapid article about the tunnel or cemetery, they'd likely run you out of town.”

  “I appreciate the tip,” replied Ulrich. The value in this interview was rapidly dwindling. Tillinghast seemed sure Dr. Klein was dead; this might've been a suspicious sentiment under ordinary circumstances, except that, with each passing moment, the doctor's death seemed more and more a certainty. As he'd always maintained, the simplest explanation was almost certainly the correct one, and a death by misadventure was probable. There was a haze of confusion in the way, however, which kept him from fully embracing this line of thought.

  First, there'd been Ulrich's own visit to the Sick House. He'd encountered something there. It'd left a mark on his arm and sent him running out. Then there was the note of warning he'd received the night before, urging him to stay out of “godless Moonville”. Maybe that was just some local woman's way of telling him not to stick his nose where it didn't belong, but he couldn't be sure. Then, of course, was the fact that a letter had been sent to Dr. Klein, asking him to visit the long-shuttered infirmary. That detail didn't make sense; there was no obvious reason for him to go there. So, why had he gone, then?

  Cracking a smile, Ulrich looked to the professor sheepishly and pawed at the sleeve to his shirt. His forearm itched wildly, as if the handprint there was begging to be revealed. He wanted to show Tillinghast, to see if he'd ever seen anything like it, but feared the professor might think him a lunatic. “One other thing,” he said, unbuttoning the sleeve and slowly rolling it up. “Have you ever...”

  Ulrich looked down at his forearm.

  There was nothing there.

  The skin was white, healthy. There was no sign whatsoever of the handprint that had marked it that very morning. Ulrich glanced over his arm incredulously before chuckling and pulling the sleeve back down. “Never mind,” he said, standing up in a hurry. His cheeks were beet red. “Thank you for your time.”

  Chapter 12

  “Fly Me To The Moon” came on loudly as Ulrich started up the SUV, allowing it to idle for a moment in the narrow drive outside the Historical Society building. He lurched forward in his seat, pressing his forehead against the grotty steering wheel and cursed under his breath. He tried to shut off the stereo, batting at it feebly with an open hand, but only succeeded in turning up the volume. He felt helpless, lost.

  His usual investigations were simple, clear-cut things.

  Usually, he'd track a target through his hometown. Back home, he had informants he could call upon. Guys who frequented shady bars, homeless guys with keen eyes, paperboys and such.

  A polaroid or two of a cheating husband with his mistresses' legs wrapped around his torso was usually all the evidence he needed to get ahold of, though.

  Slipping the pictures into an envelope, he'd hand them off to the wife, accept his pay and bow out of the client's life forever.

  It was neat, clean, easy.

  Well, not quite.

  Often, the work was gritty, gross, irritating.

  But it wasn't anything like this. This was the big leagues. Weird things were going on, things that had him doubting his own mind, and he didn't like it. Feeling as though he was losing his grip on reality, Ulrich fought back the urge to throw up and glanced at his forearm every few moments.

  Nope. There was no handprint there.

  What did this mean? He was certain, absolutely certain that it had been there earlier that morning. He'd been in the Sick House, had been grabbed by something that his memory was mercifully unclear on, and a mark had been left behind. A handprint, clear as day, in the hues of a serious bruise. When he'd gone to reveal it to Tillinghast however, he was floored to find it gone. It wasn't even that it had faded or worn off; there was literally no trace of it to be found. If it'd been some sort of ink as he'd earlier tried to convince himself, then there should have been at least a smudge left behind on the inside of his sleeve.

  Nothing. The skin was pristine, unmolested.

  Sinatra started into “My Way”, and Ulrich punched off the stereo with a growl. He put the seat back, sucking in a deep breath and thinking up his next move. Wha
t could he do now? The people in town hated him because they suspected he was just trying to capitalize on something sensational. The professor, one of his major leads, hadn't given him much to work with. The car was a mess, the only hotel in town was a dump, he'd gotten a letter that seemed at least a little threatening and he'd been terrorized in the old infirmary.

  Everything sucked.

  Tempted once again to throw in the towel, he maneuvered down the main drag, cracking one of the windows and allowing the cool autumn wind to mingle with the perspiration on his flushed brow. The tree-studded scenery passed; another strip mall featuring a book store and a craft store came into view. Beyond it, a McDonald's older than any he'd ever seen.

  Still further ahead he stopped in an empty lot. It was reduced to gravel. A large building had apparently stood on the site once, and large slabs of concrete remained where its foundation had been. He parked and unearthed his notebook, flipping through its pages and trying to decide on his next lead. He'd taken the names of a few townsfolk; there was a restaurant-owner who'd seen Dr. Klein in the moments before he set off for the infirmary. Though, there was precious little chance of such a person chatting with an outsider about the incident. Ulrich promptly crossed out the name.

  There was the old nun that Tillinghast had mentioned, Sister Ruth, who could be found out on Lancaster Street. Could the old nun tell him something about what'd happened? It was unlikely; she could only tell him about her time working in the Sick House, and such details were only pertinent to his own curiosities in the place, rather than the case. He flipped through his notebook impatiently, stumbling upon the name of the State Highway Patrol officer who'd been in charge of the initial investigation. “Officer Brent Stanley,” he uttered, scanning the page for the officer's direct office line.

  Among the numbers listed, Ulrich found contact information for Dr. Klein's housekeeper, a woman by the name of Ramona Willis. She'd seen him the morning before he'd gone missing. “Well, maybe she'll be willing to talk,” he mused. Being close with the doctor, perhaps she would support Ulrich's investigation and cooperate by telling what she knew. At least, he hoped so.

  Ulrich pulled his cell phone from his pocket and found he got a feeble reception. Holding it out before him in search of more bars, he punched in Ramona's number to set up an interview later in the day. The line crackled to life. Chipping away a bit of mud on the center console, Ulrich stretched and took in the cool breeze, hastily undoing the top button of his shirt and airing himself out.

  After three rings, there was an answer. It was a young woman's voice. “Hello?”

  Ulrich perked up, donning as pleasant a tone as he could. “Hello, am I speaking to Ramona Willis?”

  From the moment the question left his lips, Ulrich could pick up on a certain consternation. It wasn't a vocal phenomenon, but the air soured immediately, like he'd picked at a wound not altogether healed. “No,” came the response a few moments later, and with a tremulous tone. “No, this is her daughter. My mother hasn't been seen in two days.” She paused to compose herself. “May I ask who's calling?”

  Ulrich froze. Missing? The doctor's housekeeper was missing too? He bit his lip. What the hell is going on here? Is everybody in this godforsaken backwater going missing now? Mysterious disappearances must be very much in vogue around here. Hesitating, Ulrich opted to lie. “Oh, I'm sorry to hear about that. I was calling... on behalf of...” he coughed. “T-the bank.”

  “The bank?” Ramona's daughter replied incredulously. “What bank?”

  “M-my apologies,” stammered Ulrich. “I can see that now is not a good time to discuss the opening of a new, low interest homeowner's loan. Have a good day.” With that, he promptly hung up. “Shit.”

  Wetting his lips, Ulrich returned to his phone, pulling up Jerome's number and dialing it with haste. It rang only twice before the familiar voice answered “hello?”

  “Jerome, you ass, what have you gotten me into here?” demanded Ulrich, balling his fist.

  “O-oh, is that you, Mr. Ulrich?” Jerome could be heard to gulp, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “How are things going?”

  Losing his temper and needing badly to vent to someone, Ulrich stamped his foot against the floor of the SUV. “Why, things have gone to shit, as it happens. First of all, someone in town knew about me. They knew my name, Jerome. Who did you tell? That was a mistake. You blew whatever cover I had.”

  Jerome was quick to apologize. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! You didn't tell me to keep quiet, and I gave my uncle's housekeeper, Ramona, a call to let her know that you were coming to town. I thought I should tell her in case you wanted to follow up with her. But she's the only one, I promise you!” He cleared his throat. “W-why? What happened? Should I not have said anything to her? She's not a gossip, I swear. I doubt she went and told everyone in town you were coming. She was close with my uncle, and would want him found. She's really very nice, and--”

  Ulrich interrupted with fire in his voice. “And she's missing. There's that.”

  A few moments passed before Jerome replied. “W-wait, she's missing? S-since when?”

  “A few days, by the sounds of it.” Ulrich massaged at his temple with his fingertips, glancing at his forearm once again and finding himself unnerved by the lack of a handprint. It was almost freakier to see it gone than it had been to see it rendered on his skin. “What did I sign up for, Jerome? What have I gotten myself into? Things here are strange. People going missing-- as in, more than one. That's pretty significant for a town of less than two-thousand people. And then there's that old, disgusting infirmary building. I tell you--” He stopped himself from discussing his visit in detail. There was no sense in his divulging the specifics. It would only make him seem bothered and delusional. He took in a deep breath to compose himself. “I feel like this thing might be bigger than you let on, and if I'm being honest, this job's a little too heavy. This is police stuff, through and through.”

  “Y-yeah, but they didn't find anything!” Jerome pleaded. “They gave it up, so that's why I asked you to look into it!”

  Ulrich grit his teeth, beating back the chain of insults that surged to the fore of his mind. “Look here, you little--” He caught himself, closing his eyes and pursing his lips for a few seconds. “OK. I'm going to get the authorities involved. I'm going to call up your guy at the State Highway Patrol and see what they can tell me. Better yet, I'm going to see if they can't accompany me to that infirmary. It isn't safe to go alone.” This last phrase was uttered with a noticeable tremor. “But this isn't what I signed up for, Jerome. People are going missing, and I'd better not be the next one to vanish.”

  Unsure of how to respond, Jerome tried to lighten the mood with a chuckle. “W-well, I'm sure it's not that serious. Right? Maybe Ramona just went out somewhere, hasn't come home yet. It's only been a couple days...” He paused. “I'm sure you'll be fine. You're a skilled investigator. I have faith in you.”

  Suddenly, the entire conversation felt even more ludicrous. He hadn't called for a pep-talk, for Jerome's flimsy encouragement. Ulrich sniffed at the air. A skilled investigator? Hardly. He was lost here, completely aimless. Jerome had no idea what the last twenty-four hours had been like for him. After seething for a time, he finally responded. “I'll call you later when I know what's happening. Perhaps the cops will be able to tell me something.”

  “OK, great. Thanks a lot, for all you're doing.” Jerome continued. “Oh, how's the car treating you? Is she holding up OK? You know, the boss doesn't usually let us lend dealership vehicles out--”

  Ulrich hung up and dropped the phone into the passenger seat.

  Two missing people now, both of them acquainted.

  Though he believed in coincidences, he felt reasonably sure that this wasn't one.

  Ulrich's workload had effectively doubled, because he had a terrible feeling that whatever was responsible for the doctor's disappearance was behind Ramona's as well.

  He looked into the rearview mirror be
fore slowly backing out onto the main road and putting the address to the police station into the GPS system. Will I be the next one to go missing? he wondered. Tensing his jaw, he left the empty lot behind and started onto his new route. I'd better not be. If I disappear, then who the hell's going to look for me?

  Chapter 13

  Ulrich had never been especially comfortable around cops.

  It was true that he was used to dealing with them in his line of work; now and then a case would take a turn necessitating a call to the authorities. There'd been one case, an investigation of a local business by a former employee who claimed the owner was using the company as a front for drug-running. Ulrich's investigation had proven this to be true, however it was ultimately the local police who'd taken all the credit for his find. Even before that, he'd never been friendly with cops; they put him on edge. More than once he'd been made fun of for his choice of career, mocked for doing police-type work without the badge or responsibilities that came with it. He could handle their heckling, but detested the bureaucracy that they put in his way whenever he needed to get ahold of legal documents and the borderline aggressive attitudes that they sometimes presented with. Nine cops out of ten, in his estimation, were bullies with guns. One officer he'd gotten along with back in Toledo, long-retired, had a joke he often repeated. “Hell, even cops don't like other cops, Harlan.” Perhaps it was true.

  The nearest station was a half-hour drive away in nearby Jackson, and by the time he pulled into the lot just off of the highway, he was sweating bullets. He didn't want to seem nervous or standoffish; he simply wanted to get ahold of what he could concerning the investigation of Dr. Klein's disappearance and perhaps enlist the help of an officer in searching the Sick House. It was a tall order, but a reasonable one, so long as he didn't bungle it.

  Parking the car, he noticed that there was only one police cruiser in sight. It was a small station in the middle of a vast field of yellowed grass. The stations back in Toledo weren't awfully large, but compared to this little outpost they seemed enormous in retrospect.