At the hushed count of three, he turned the knob and threw his light at the yawning darkness that opened up before him. A wave of chill air struck him and set him grasping for his collar. He wished he'd worn his coat; the mud on it didn't matter to him now. A set of stairs descending into some yet unseen hollow of darkness, and flanked on all sides by stone walls, roughly hewn, emerged from the murk.
This was it. The way to the cellar. To follow these stairs was to descend into the bowels of the infirmary.
Hesitating, Ulrich leaned into the open doorway just a touch, inspecting the uppermost stairs and wondering if the rickety-looking planks wouldn't disintegrate beneath his weight. As with all things in the Sick House, his descent carried with it some risk. He bit his lower lip and stuck out one foot gingerly, tapping the top of the first step and gripping the edge of the doorframe to keep his balance. The wood looked brittle, but until he was standing on it with his full weight there'd be no way to know whether he'd be supported.
The uppermost stair groaned, pleaded, creaked as he pressed, but didn't fall to bits straightaway as he'd expected.
Well, here goes nothing...
Mounting it with his full weight, he loosed a great sigh when it didn't suddenly disintegrate.
It was a little early for relief, however.
The second step, then the third, sagged beneath his feet as he continued. He clutched for anything that might serve as a support, his hand eventually finding the chill stone walls. The stonework here was very rough, calling to mind images of medieval dungeons carved directly into bedrock. He was descending into some primordial hovel, into some space that might precede the construction of the infirmary. Of humanity itself, perhaps. His fingers grazed the rough grooves where chisels had once worked the stone. Where the rest of the building might have been considered well-made and even handsome at one point, there was no doubt that the stony cellar had ever been anything but primitive.
The scent of moisture here was nigh overwhelming, far worse than it'd been anywhere else in the building. Something fast and many-legged dashed across his fingers as he grazed the wall, nearly sending him into a sprint down the remainder of the stairs. He cast his hand away and almost lost his balance, grinding to a halt at the midpoint of the ancient stairwell. Down below, rendered in the meager light, was the edge of a stone floor. These evidences of solid flooring were encouraging, and Ulrich carefully continued down the remainder of the stairs without touching the walls.
From below, accompanied by a chill, damp draft, he thought he heard a subdued laugh.
It was brief, so short-lived a sound that he couldn't be sure whether he'd actually heard it, or whether his ears had simply taken liberties with the sound of the subterranean breeze. But even if it had been a natural phenomenon, caused by the passage of the draft against some feature in the yet unexplored cellar, it was incredibly disquieting to the investigator. He felt disoriented by terror, his muscles tightening and refusing to work. An ambush felt imminent; someone or something was crouched around the corner, just out of sight, waiting to pounce on him like a bloodthirsty animal.
“H-hello?” he called out.
There was no response, save for a faint echoing of his own voice. It was like being in a venus fly-trap, maybe. The cold, filthy air didn't know what to do with his voice, muddling it and stifling it until it dissolved into discordant echoes. This was a place unaccustomed to any living human presence. To speak here was to shout in a tomb, to hear sounds as only the dead might hear them.
He continued.
The bottom step of the stairwell split down the middle as his foot landed upon it, but he didn't fall through or injure himself. Instead, hopping down onto the stone floor, Ulrich caught himself against the wall and quickly placed his back against it, showering the light from his phone all about his surroundings. The icy stone, apparently damp in places due to leaks from above, left his shirt wet and his skin burning with cold. It was only through a monumental effort that he let his shoulders drop and took in a deep, steady breath.
Don't forget why you're here. This is the end of the road, and it simply won't do to lose your cool. Not here. Somewhere down here you're going to find what you're looking for. Some proof of the doctor's whereabouts, or at least, of his misdeeds. You've got to stay calm. Don't lose your head. That's how mistakes happen. Just pretend this is like any other case. You're in a cellar, sure, but you're just looking to find the proof you'll need to wrap things up. It's business as usual. Imagine it's a seedy hotel, and you're peering into a window to take a snapshot of some guy boning his mistress...
Try as he might, it was impossible to imagine anything but the rough walls of uninviting stone that surrounded him.
He was in the underground now. If standing in the front room of the Sick House had made him feel dangerously isolated, then standing in its cellar made him feel like he'd been launched into outer space. The feeling of vulnerability, of stark terror here, was virtually incalculable, but with every step he took he massaged his worried mind with whatever reassurances he could conjure. He told himself that this was a case, just like any other, and that he'd be done very soon. That he'd find what he was looking for and would be free to exit the infirmary when he was done.
Staggering into the cellar, he took to mapping out his immediate surroundings. The sprawling space was cluttered with abandoned goods, the great bulk of which must've been used decades ago in the care of the infirmary's patients. Beds of a style not seen since the turn of the last century littered the way ahead in several rows. They sat in varying stages of disrepair, their wooden frames often splintered and the metal springs that formed their support jutting out sharply to gouge the air. Degraded mattresses were stacked against the walls in certain spots, with holes torn into them by vermin and many of them so indescribably discolored by mold that they scarcely looked like mattresses at all. Small wooden tables sat stacked in a wobbly configuration, cemented in place only by the dust of years that accumulated between them like mortar.
From beyond this mess of abandoned goods, Ulrich heard for the second time the ululations of something like a human voice. A soft moan, which registered in his frightened mind as vaguely feminine, met his ears. He stopped, his light searching out the source of the sound, but when he saw there was none his mind busied itself in seeking a scapegoat instead. It was the wind playing tricks on him. There must be a large opening in the room somewhere from whence the draft was entering, he fancied. That was the only explanation.
The only sane explanation, anyhow.
It was little wonder that countless people had died during their stay at the Sick House. To see these rows of worn-out beds, to taste the very air that the insane and infirm must've breathed during the months of their convalescence, was too much for him to bear even in good health. Probably when the place had been first shut down by authorities the nuns had taken their patients into the underground, to care for them in this cellar where they were less likely to be found out. It was clear that this was no place for the sick and dying, however. Here and there Ulrich spotted gossamer-encrusted kerosine lamps and small heating apparatuses that, even in their day, could not have kept away the biting subterranean cold.
The patients who had met their end in this house of horrors had suffered till the very last, he now felt confident.
When discussing things with Sister Ruth, he hadn't once thought that the conditions in the infirmary could be this inadequate. Walking through the cellar now, buffeted by the chill, mold-ridden air, he found himself possessed by a great anger. This place wasn't merely inadequate to be used as an infirmary-- it was practically a dungeon.
Ulrich stopped in his tracks, something large and wide coming to light at the end of the room, just beyond the last of the ruined beds. Its end was raised almost a foot from the ground, and a large, warped thing made up of wooden planks sat atop it. Kneeling down gently, Ulrich scanned its dusty surface with his light.
It was an entrance into the tunnels. He'd have bet
his life on it. The wooden lid, carelessly fashioned and twisted out of shape by the elements, admitted a constant current of wet, cold air. This was where the draft had been coming from, where the pungent scent of moisture emanated from. Kneeling beside it, he was almost overwhelmed, his eyes and throat feeling scratchy. There was no telling what insidious spores he was breathing in then, or what effect they might have on his health. He grit his teeth and reached out for the lid.
It was light, flimsy, and completely inadequate as a cover for such a large opening.
Ulrich had only raised it a little ways when something suddenly burst forth from the shadowed aperture.
Chapter 24
The scream that erupted from him left his throat raw. The investigator fell back onto his haunches, the phone clattering against the stony floor and illuminating only the faintest edge of the thing that dashed from the mouth of the opening. The wooden lid crashed to the floor, leaving the aperture completely uncovered and admitting the bone-chilling cold into the cellar in abundance.
Rats.
A number of fat, black rats raced from the inside of the aperture, scrambling across the stone floor in a cacophony of screeches and scratchings. Ulrich's chest tightened so hard he thought he was having a heart attack. Wet fur passed across his arms and legs as the racing mongrels fled past him and disappeared into the depths of the cellar.
When the drove had passed, Ulrich slowly righted himself and struggled to get his pounding heart under control. Picking up his light, he pursed his lips and slowly leaned in, giving the opening in the floor his first proper look.
It was deep, and the only sensible form of ingress existed as a rusty metal ladder implanted into the stone. The rungs were flecked in reddish rust, and looked positively ancient. They'd probably been forged by some long-dead Moonville blacksmith in the days when the town was still young, and were fastened into the wall with bolts that, by today's standards, looked rather clumsy. A cursory touch of the topmost rung found it surprisingly sturdy, but of its brittleness Ulrich couldn't be entirely certain. Like the stairs leading down to the cellar, there was no way to know how the rungs of the metal ladder might support his weight. If it gave way during his descent, then there was a good chance of his crashing to the unseen depths below and dashing his head open.
No one would ever find him if he died down there. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that while exploring the Sick House, but as he stared down into the bowels of the earth and urged the bolus of dread down his throat with a series of calculated swallows, it really hit home.
Growing up, Ulrich had always been uncoordinated. Climbing was not one of his strengths; in gym class, when assigned to climb up a rope, his lanky limbs had proven worthless. He wasn't athletic by nature, and his paralyzing fear of heights had only made it more difficult for him.
Peering into the darkness and wondering just how deep the opening was made his heart gallop like nothing else. It might've been a ten foot drop. Or a hundred. The only thing keeping him safe in his descent would be a metal ladder nearly as old as the Revolution.
And, of course, even if he made it down there in one piece, there was no telling just what he'd find once he got there.
There was positively zero comfort to cling to.
He could do nothing but climb down into the aperture and pray that he didn't fall to his death.
His stomach was in knots and he very nearly forfeit his breakfast upon the stone floor as he sidled up to the opening. He slowly slipped one leg over the lip of the thing, seeking out one of the rungs with the tip of his boot. When his footing was firm, he followed suit with his next leg.
It would be impossible for him to hold onto the phone while descending; to head down the ladder into unfathomable depths with only one hand was simply unthinkable. He'd require as much support as possible to keep from slipping on the way down, and thus switched off his phone, placing it in his breast pocket.
Ulrich was promptly eaten up by the darkness, enveloped in a shroud of shadow so profound that he couldn't help but shudder. This was the darkness of the grave, the very color of oblivion.
Holding his breath, he held on tight and sought out the next rung with his right foot.
The metal groaned a little for his weight, but didn't move in any noticeable way. He attempted to allay his terror by counting the rungs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He was descending as quickly as his shaky limbs would allow. His muscles were stiff, locking up every time he found the next rung, in order to keep him from loosening up and plummeting. His biceps burned as he lowered himself, and his palms were irritated by the coarseness of the rusted rungs.
I should get a Tetanus booster when this is all over with...
It was on the tenth rung that his foot met solid floor. He could have jumped for joy, and quickly let go of the ladder, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Turning on the flashlight, he bathed his new surroundings in light, illuminating ancient spaces that had been choked in darkness since the day they'd been carved into existence by the ancient workmen of Moonville.
The tunnel was a sturdy thing, a mixture of stone and well-formed soil, very densely packed. Canvassing from one side to another, Ulrich found that the structure spanned a great distance in both directions. If the rumors he'd heard were any indication, then this tunnel system could lead him to most any place in Moonville. As he studied the ancient walls, the rough, dirt floor at his feet, he certainly believed it.
What purpose might the people of Moonville had for such an underground system? Had they used it in the interest of security, to stockpile valuables and evade thieves from out of town? Had they done it for the sake of convenience, perhaps, so that they might have more direct routes to the homes of their neighbors or their places of work? Or, perhaps, had these tunnels been reserved for more nefarious purposes? Such a space as this, so swollen with shadow and separated from the outside world, possessed a culture and spirit all its own.
There could be no doubt; this place could not have served any positive purpose. Nothing good ever occurred in these tunnels, so deep beneath the earth. They'd been fashioned in the interest of primal privacy, to mask certain activities from the eyes of the uninitiated. There was no telling what had gone on down here during Moonville's prime, but Ulrich's frightened mind had no trouble tracing out some macabre possibilities. Certainly Sister Ruth, Sister Astrid and Dr. Klein had thought little of using the system of tunnels to stash away a body. As he looked around, Ulrich had no trouble believing that Teddy's body had been but one of many.
While attempting to decide which way to go in starting his search, Ulrich heard something that made his blood run cold. His limbs, already fatigued for the climb down, seized into a defensive position and the light was brought into his eyes, leaving him temporarily blinded.
He backed away in one direction, then the next.
It didn't matter which way he went, however.
The tunnel was filled with the sound of footsteps, and it was impossible for him to know which way they were coming from.
Carefully, he held out his light and attempted to investigate the source of the noise. If he was about to get ambushed, attacked, then he wanted to defend himself. But the rough sounds of footfalls so reverberated through the passage that he couldn't be sure whether there was one person coming or a hundred.
But then he spotted it, the single source of the noise.
It was only scarcely rendered in the light, but its outline was too dreadfully familiar to him.
A white, flabby foot, then another, struck the dirt floor in staggering locomotion. A lumbering white bulk of a body... a head featuring sprigs of long, whitish hair... an uncertain visage of inhuman abnormality...
This was the thing he'd encountered in the upstairs hallway during his first search of the Sick House. The specter that'd marked up his forearm with that midnight-colored handprint.
And now it had come undergrou
nd, to meet him.
Chapter 25
Ulrich's strength fled. He dropped the phone and took a scrambling step backward, only to fall onto his ass. Pawing at the soil, he tried to crab-walk away from the oncoming specter, but it quickened its pace and shambled closer, till its entire outline was visible in the glow of his fallen light.
It was then, when his terror was at its absolute zenith and his heart felt ready to spring from his chest that Ulrich realized it. Getting his first prolonged look of the thing, which had previously disappeared into the shadows and remained but a nebulous glimpse into the unknown, he found that he recognized something in it. When it did not disappear, but instead continued forth, coming to stand some few feet away in a sighing, shuddering slump, his memory began to make connections between the shape of the dread specter and the details he'd glimpsed recently in a photograph.
When it dawned on him, his terror was supplanted momentarily by confusion.
Standing before him, glowing with a whitish, ghostly aura in the light of his phone, was Dr. Siegfried Klein.
The doctor, looking very much like the man in the photograph Jerome had given him, stood upright and presented with an eerie smile. The man's form was more concrete, less gaseous than it'd been that time on the stairs. This time, there was no doubt of the figure's humanity, or of its identity. The wreath of greying hair was restored upon the specter's head, and its gentle expression was very much that of the smiling man in the photograph, except that something ominous had been superadded to it. He was completely naked, but his sagging body maintained something of roughness. It permeated cold; had Ulrich dared to reach out and touch the vision, it would have felt like sheer ice, he was sure.
The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 17
